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Full text of "14000 miles : a carriage and two women"

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14000 

MILES 



A CARRIAGE AND TWO WOMEN 



BY 

FRANCES S. HOWE 



'AWAY, A WAT, PROM lfBN AND TOWNS 
TO THB WTLDWOOD AND THE DOWNS." 

— Shelley. 



PRIVATELY PRINTED 
1906 



Vt/x/.M 



JAN 15 912 



Copyright, 1906, by 
Frances S. Howe. 



8BNTINBL PRINTING CO. 
PITCHBUXG. 



FOREWORD. 

Many of these informal reports of more than 14,000 

miles' driving were written for the Boston Evening 

Transcript some years ago, and the later letters for the 

Leominster Daily Enterprise. They cover an unbroken 

series of summer and autumn journeys, which have never 

lost any of the freshness and charm of that first little trip 

of two hundred miles along the Connecticut. A drive 

across the continent, or even on the other side of the 

water would seem less of. an event to us now than that 

first carriage journey. This volume is a response to. 

"You ought to make a book," from many who have been 

interested in our rare experience. 

F. C. A. 

F. S. H. 
Leominster, Mass. 



■•-jr. j 



CONTENTS. 

I. Summer Travels in a Phaeton, . . 1 

II. Chronicle of the Tenth Annual Drive, 16 

III. Old Orchard and Boston, ... 32 

IY. Moosilauke and Franconia Notch, . 48 

Y. Connecticut, with side trip to New 

Jersey, 73 

YI. Dixville Notch and Old Orchard, . 91 
VII. Catskills, Lake George and Green 

Mountains, 109 

VIII. Narragansett Peer and Manomet Point, 127 

IX. White Mountains and Vermont, . . 137 

(A Six Hundred Milbs Driyb.) 

X. By Phaeton to Canada, .... 153 

(NOTBS OF ▲ Sbybn Hukdrbd Milbs Tbip.) 

XI. Outings in Massachusetts, . . . 173 

XII. Bar Harbor and Boston, .... 190 

XIII. Dixville Notch and the North Shore, 211 

XIV. The Kennebec Journey, . ... . 228 
XV. On Highways and Byways, . . . 241 

(1894 TO 1904.) 

XVI. Lake Memphremagog. 



252 



POSTSCRIPT. Buggy Jottings of Seven Hundred 
Miles Driving, 265 

Cikcuit op the Nbw England Statbs. 



14000 MILES 



14000 MILES 

CHAPTER I. 

SUMMER TRAVELS IN A PHAETON. 

"We were a jolly pair, we two, and ladies at that ; and 
we had decided to go, amid the protestations of the 
towns-people and the remarks of Madam Grundy that it 
was not proper, and that there were so many tramps it 
was not prudent for two ladies to take a trip with their 
horse and carriage along the North Shore. Nevertheless, 
we take our lives in our hands, and 'do the trip' in a 
large comfortable, roomy buggy," etc. 

A letter in the Boston Evening Transcript, under the 
heading "Along the North Shore," from which the para- 
graph above is taken, so aptly describes a part of one of 
our journeys, that we cannot resist the temptation to 
tell you something of our travels, which our friends no 
longer consider daring and experimental, but a thor- 
oughly sensible and delightful way of combining rest and 
pleasure. 

In the summer of 1872, "we two, and ladies at that," 
made our trial trip, with the consent and approval of 
family friends for our encouragement, and the misgiv- 
ings and fears of those outside to inspire us with caution. 
Tramps were not in fashion, and I have forgotten what 
was the terror of those days. Like the "other two," we 
were equipped with a pet horse — safe, but with no lack 



14000 MILES 

of spirit — a roomy phaeton, with lunch basket, wraps, 
books, fancy work and writing materials all at hand. 
Our bags, with rubber coverings, were strapped under- 
neath the carriage. Some cautious reader may like to 
know that we did not forget to put in the "box" a 
wrench, a bottle of oil, strong cord, etc., for emergencies. 
Of course we had a map, for geography was not taught 
very practically in our school days, and we should be 
lost without one. We made no definite plans beyond 
the first day, but had vaguely in mind, if all went well, 
to drive through the valley of the Connecticut River. 

Our first day's ride took us around Wachusett. We 
did not delay to climb its woody slopes, for we had 
many times visited our little mountain, and knew its 
charms by heart. It was new scenes we were seeking, 
and we were eagerly anticipating the drive along the 
Connecticut, fancying that much more beautiful and 
romantic than the familiar hills. It was not until we 
reached the hot, sandy roads, and were surrounded by 
tobacco fields, with rarely a glimpse of the river, that 
we realized that valleys are most enjoyable when seen 
from the hill-tops. The peculiar charm of the view from 
Mt. Holyoke we can never forget. A picture like that 
of the Northampton meadows, with the silvery river 
winding through them, we have found on no other hill 
or mountain-top. 

If this trial journey had proved our last, we would like 
to recall it in detail; but, as it has been succeeded by 
others more extended, we must hastily pass by the nov- 
elty of our first crossing the Connecticut by ferry, the 
historic points of interest in old Deerfield, the terrific 

2 



14000 MILES 

thunderstorm just after we left Greenfield, the Broad 
Brook drive as we neared Brattleboro, the profuse quan- 
tity of lovely maidenhair ferns by the roadside, dripping 
with the morning rain, our lunch on the shore of Lake 
Spofford, and so on to Keene and Jaffrey. 

How can we so hastily pass over the ascent of grand 
old Monadnock? Perhaps we enjoyed it all the more 
for the repeated protests of the youthful proprietor of 
the Mountain House, who assured us the feat was im- 
possible, as the heavy showers which we had so much 
enjoyed in our morning drive had converted the path 
into a series of cascades. The mists which had entirely 
concealed the mountain were just breaking away, and we 
made the ascent in the face of warnings and water, yield- 
ing to no obstacles. Before we left the summit it was 
mostly clear, and we thought little of our moist condi- 
tion or the difficulties of the descent before us as we 
feasted our eyes, watching the showers as they moved 
on from village to village in the valley below, leaving a 
burst of sunlight in their wake. Our descent was rapid, 
notwithstanding difficulties, and when we reached the 
hotel, so delightfully located on the side of the mountain, 
we forthwith decided to prolong our stay. After a cosy 
supper, for we were the only guests, we repaired to the 
rocks to watch the sunset clouds, which are rarely finer. 
It was mild, and we lingered while the darkness gath- 
ered, until the mountain looked so black and lonely we 
did not like to think we had stood on that peak alone 
only a few hours before. While we watched, the clouds 
began to brighten, and soon the moon appeared in her 
full glory, making the whole scene one of indescribable 

3 



14000 MILES 

beauty. The next day was Sunday, and a lovelier day 
never dawned. The peculiar Sunday quiet pervaded the 
very atmosphere, and we sat on the rocks reading, writ- 
ing and musing all day, enjoying such a season of rest as 
one seldom experiences. 

Two days more passed, and we were safe at home, 
after an absence of only ten days, and about two hun- 
dred miles' driving, but with delightful recollections, 
which cannot be forgotten in a lifetime. This trial trip 
was so successful that when another summer came it was 
taken for granted by our friends that we should try 
again, and we started, equipped as before with map, but 
no plan — only an inclination to face north. Following 
this inclination took us through many thrifty towns and 
villages, and gave us delightful drives over hills and 
through valleys, until we found ourselves spending a 
night with the Shakers on the top of a high hill in Can- 
terbury, N. H. The brothers and sisters were unsparing 
in their attentions, though strict in certain requirements. 
We left them next morning, with a generous Shaker 
lunch in our basket, and turned our horse toward Alton 
Bay. As Brother George and Sister Philena assured us, 
it was the longest, roughest and loneliest ten miles' drive 
we had ever taken. The round trip on Lake Winnipi- 
seogee the following day was a delightful contrast. 

We now began to study our map, for we had not even 
a vague idea where next. We started at last, not anx- 
ious, but aimless; and after wandering several days in 
obedience to the will of the hour, landed on Wells 
Beach ; we passed Sunday on York Beach ; then drove on 
to Portsmouth, where we left our horse for a day to visit 

4 



14000 MILES 

the Isles of Shoals. The places of resort and interest as 
we followed the coast to Gloucester, Rye, Hampton, Sal- 
isbury, etc., are well known. After refreshing ourselves 
at Gloucester with rowing and moonlight bathing we 
returned to Newburyport, where we saw the homes of 
Lord Timothy Dexter, Harriet Prescott Spofford, and 
others of note. An excursion on the Merrimac in a barge, 
and the drive by the river road to Bradford and Haver- 
hill, we found very pleasant. It was in this vicinity that, 
for the first time, we were received ungraciously. The 
good landlady of an old-fashioned inn reluctantly re- 
ceived us, after rebuking us for the abuse of our horse, 
little knowing how much more thoughtful we were of 
him than of ourselves. He looked tired that night, for 
the seashore had not agreed with him, and I think had 
her knowledge extended so far, she would have reported 
us to the S. F. T. P. O. C. T. A. However, after cross- 
examination, she conducted us to a room spotlessly clean, 
the floor covered with the choicest of braided mats, and 
two beds mountain high, but expressly enjoined us "not 
to tumble but one of them." We left the next morning 
laden with good advice, which, carefully followed, re- 
turned us safely home ere many days, with our horse in 
better condition than when we started on our journey. 

Of course we were ready to go again the next year, 
this time starting southerly, spending nights in North- 
boro, Franklin, Taunton and Tiverton Stone Bridge. 
Thus far the scenery and roads do not compare favorably 
with those in New Hampshire; but when we reached 
Newport, we were compensated for lack of interesting 
driving. 



14000 MILES 

Margery Deane tells your readers all one needs to 
know of this place of places. So we will find our way to 
New Bedford, leave our horse and take a look at Mar- 
tha's Vineyard for a few days. Our first impression of 
the "Cottage City" was that of a miniature Newport ; but 
this every one knows all about, so we will go on to 
Plymouth, where we saw everything worth seeing. 
Plymouth Rock would have satisfied us more fully had 
it looked as it does in the pictures of the "Landing," 
instead of being out in the midst of dry land, with a 
pagoda built over it, and inscriptions to remind one that 
it is not an ordinary flagstone. t 

We found much that interested us in Marshfield, 
Hingham, and Milton with its Blue Hills. We have not 
forgotten a night at the homelike Norfolk House, and an 
afternoon devoted to the famed residences in Water- 
town. We drove to Point Shirley one morning during 
our stay near Boston, and on returning gave our journey 
another historic touch by going to the top of Bunker Hill 
Monument; and still another a few days later, as we 
visited the old battle-grounds in Lexington and Concord, 
on our way home. 

Before another summer, whispers of tramps were 
heard, and soon they were fully inaugurated, making us 
tremble and sigh as we thought of the opposition that 
threatened us. A revolver was suggested, in case we 
persisted in facing this danger, and finally as go we 
must, we condensed our baggage that it might be out of 
sight, and confidently took the reins, having no fear of 
anything ahead, so long as our greatest terror — a loaded 
revolver — was close at hand, not "hidden away in one 

6 



14000 MILES 

corner under the seat," but in a little pocket made on 
purpose, where it could be seized without delay when 
our game appeared. As we shall not refer to our "com- 
panion" again, never having had occasion to use it, we 
will say here that it is no longer a terror but a sort of 
chaperone, in whose care we rest secure. 

Our driving this season was within the limits of our 
own State, and we have yet to find anything more truly 
beautiful than western Massachusetts, with its Berk- 
shire hills and grand old towns, Stockbridge, Lee and 
Lenox. Our map was on a small scale, and the distance 
from Pittsfield to the Hudson River looked very short, 
so we ordered good care for our horse, and took the six 
o'clock train one morning for Hudson, where we met the 
boat for New York. The day was perfect, and our 
enjoyment complete. We reached the city at dusk, and 
next thought to surprise a friend, twenty miles out, in 
New Jersey, where we received a joyous welcome. The 
next day we devoted to New York, returning by night 
boat to Hudson, and before nine o'clock the following 
morning, after forty miles by rail again, we resumed our 
driving from Pittsfield, delighted with our side trip of 
nearly four hundred miles, but oh ! so glad to be in our 
cosy phaeton once more. The homeward route was full 
of interesting details, which we must leave. 

Centennial year came next, and we made our shortest 
trip, driving only one hundred and fifty miles in New 
Hampshire in early autumn. 

The tramp terror increased at home and abroad, and 
when summer came again our "guardians" looked so 
anxious, we said nothing, and went camping instead of 

7 



14000 MILES 

driving. A party of twelve, on the shores of Lake 
Wachusett, with royal accommodations in the number 
and size of tents and hammocks and three boats at a 
private landing, diverted us at the time. But, as the sea- 
son waned, we pined, and before October was gone we 
were permitted to revolve around the "Hub" for two 
weeks, supposed to be quite safe, while so near the centre 
of civilization. It was like a June day when we sat on 
the rocks at Nahant, and like November when dreariest, 
as we drove around Marblehead Neck, and watched the 
ocean so dark and angry; while the chill winds pierced 
our thickest wraps only a few days later. We shall not 
soon forget our drive from Cambridge to Hingham in the 
severest northeast storm of the season, or our delight 
on the rocks at Nantasket, after this three-days' storm 
cleared, and we felt the dashing spray. Our "Hub" 
journey was none the less interesting for being familiar, 
and we did not omit the attractions of Wellesley on our 
way home. 

Early in the following July, the New Hampshire tramp 
law having come to our rescue, we once more turned our 
faces toward the ever beautiful Lake Winnipiseogee. 
We renewed our acquaintance with the Canterbury 
Shakers, and as we always avail ourselves of whatever 
is new or interesting in our path, stopped over for a day 
at Weirs Landing to witness the inauguration of the 
Unitarian grove meetings. After the opening of this 
feast of reason we were of one mind, and without delay 
provided good board and care for our horse for a week, 
and settled down to three and four services a day. 
After the accomplishment of this feat we visited points 



14000 MILES 

of interest about Centre Harbor. In accordance with our 
usual good fortune we had a perfectly clear day on Red 
Hill, and appreciated all Starr King has written of its 
charms. The day spent at Ossipee Falls and Cascades 
gave us unbounded pleasure. We reveled in the rough 
walking and climbing, and after exploring above and 
below the falls, we were all ready to enjoy the lunch our 
hostess had prepared for our party, which we spread on 
a huge rock in the narrow gap. Our horse rested while 
we climbed, and the ten miles return drive to Centre 
Harbor required our utmost skill. On the following day 
we drove to Concord, N. H., a distance of forty miles. 
After spending a few days with friends in this charming 
place, we drove on, passing a night at the Mountain 
House, Monadnock, to refresh the memories of our first 
visit there, and breathing the pure air of Petersham, 
Barre and Princeton as we journeyed towards our own 
beautiful Leominster. 

• After these seven years' wanderings, we were con- 
sidered virtually members of the great "Order of 
Tramps," and from that time to the present we have had 
full and free consent "to go to our own company"; and 
when we boldly proposed crossing the Green Moun- 
tains to pay a visit to friends near Lake Champlain, all 
agreed it would be a delightful thing for us to do. We 
closely followed the familiar railroad route through 
Keene, Bellows Falls and Rutland; it was a glorious 
drive all the way. At one time we seemed buried in the 
mountains without any way of escape, but we had only 
to follow our winding road, which after many twistings 
and turnings brought us to Ludlow. The next night we 

9 



14000 MILES 

were safely over the mountains, and soon were with our 
friends. 

Our week in the cosy town of Benson, surrounded by 
high hills, must be left to your imagination. We will 
only tell you of a visit to Lake George. A party of fifty, 
we started at six o'clock one morning, in all sorts of 
vehicles. Four miles' jolting up and down steep hills 
took us to Benson Landing, Lake Champlain, and in 
course of time (a dozen people in a heavy two-horse 
wagon, and two other vehicles on a scow, towed by two 
men in a rowboat, is by no means rapid transit,) the 
several detachments of our party were safely landed on 
the opposite side. And then, what a ride! We never 
dreamed that the narrow strip of land between Lake 
Champlain and Lake George, only four miles across, 
could give us so much pleasure. At first we held our 
breath, but soon learned that the driver and horses were 
quite at home, and gave our fears to the winds as they 
galloped up hills almost perpendicular only to trot down 
again to the sound of the grating brakes, the wheels 
going over great rocks on one side one minute and 
down in a deep rut on the other side the next. We 
many times congratulated ourselves that we joined the 
party in the big wagon, instead of driving our good 
Charlie, as first planned. The steepest pitch of all 
brought us at last to the shore of the beautiful Lake 
George, at a point about ten miles south of Ticonderoga, 
where the boat was to meet us by special arrangement. 

Only those who have experienced it can realize what 
we enjoyed on that bright day, as we glided over the 

10 



14000 MILES 

mirror-like waters, enraptured with the loveliness sur- 
rounding us. 

After a few hours' rest at Fort William Henry, we 
were ready for the return sail. As we landed, our driver 
stood by his horses, eager for a start; a few of us 
expressed our willingness to walk for a while, possibly 
remembering the last fearful pitches in that rough road, 
as well as the beautiful cardinal flowers and ferns we 
desired to gather. After a walk and run of nearly two 
miles, the driver summoned us to the wagon, just 
before we reached the pitch we most dreaded and were 
hastening to avoid. We obeyed, and now galloped on 
until we reached Lake Champlain again, and took breath 
while we slowly ferried across in the gathering twilight. 
Our remaining four miles was a glorious moonlight drive. 
As we entered the village it seemed impossible that we 
had been away only since morning, for we had seen and 
enjoyed so much. 

The next day we turned our thoughts homeward. Not 
wishing to return by the same route, we ventured into 
New York State, and after two or three days reached 
Saratoga Springs. All frequenters of this resort can 
easily imagine our routine there — the drive to the lake at 
the approved time, etc. The roving spirit so possessed 
us that we left the scene of gayety without regret, and 
on we went over the hills to take a look at Bennington on 
our way to North Adams. We drove over Hoosac 
Mountain, but have yet to see its charms ; the mist con- 
cealed everything but our horse. We waited two hours 
at a farmhouse near the summit for fair weather, but in 

11 



14000 MILES 

vain. As we started in despair the clouds parted for an 
instant, giving us glimpses into the valley, then united 
and came down upon us in a deluging rain. Our 
dripping horse carefully picked his way down the steep 
mountain, and when we reached the level road the water 
was nearly a foot in depth for some distance. We 
splashed along quite happy, for this was not half so 
aggravating as the fitful mist of the morning, which 
every moment promised to clear away. The rest of our 
journey was pleasant, but uneventful. 

As we reviewed the drive of four hundred miles, we 
felt we must have reached the climax within our limits. 
But no! we added another hundred miles, and extended 
our time to nearly a month on our next trip. 

Lacking definite plans as usual, we drove to Lake 
Winnipiseogee once more, thinking another session of 
the Grove meeting at Weirs would be a good beginning. 
When the glorious week ended, there was seemingly an 
adjournment to the White Mountains, and as we had 
faithfully attended these meetings from the first, it was 
clearly our duty to follow; so on we drove, resting our 
horse at Plymouth, spending the night at Campton 
Village, and next day visiting in turn the attractions of 
the Pemigewasset Valley, the Flume, Pool, Basin, 
Profile and Echo Lake. Passing on through the beau- 
tiful Notch, night overtook us at Franconia. On our 
way to Bethlehem, the following morning, we left our 
horse for an hour and walked up Mt. Agassiz, which well 
repaid the effort. With the aid of a glass we traced the 
drive before us, through Bethlehem's one long street, 
past the Twin Mountain House and along the Cherry 

12 



14000 MILES 

Mountain road, turning until it nearly described a half- 
circle, and finally reaching Jefferson. 

We realized far more than Mt. Agassiz promised. We 
were leaving the beauties of the Franconia Mountains 
and nearing the grandeur of the White Mountain range, 
and in many respects it was the most impressive drive of 
our journey. The last four miles from Jefferson to the 
Highlands, just at sunset facing Mts. Washington, 
Jefferson, Adams and Madison, was beyond description. 
Here we spent several days ; for three reasons : We had 
surely found the headquarters of the "adjournment," 
for we met many Weirs friends; then, too, we were 
floating about on the northerly margin of our map, and 
could go no farther in that direction, and lastly, we were 
waiting for a favorable day for Mt. Washington. 

One of these waiting days we spent on Mt. Adams; 
two of us, out of our party of seven, registering our 
names in the "little tin box" at the summit. 

It was an exhausting climb of four miles, up the 
roughest and most beautiful path imaginable, marked 
out by the Appalachian Club. We encountered four 
hailstorms, and suffered extremely from cold on that 
August day, but the five minutes' perfectly clear view 
more than compensated. The gathering mist, which had 
cleared just for our glimpse, warned us to seek our path, 
and we rapidly descended to the Appalachian camp, 
where we found our friends and a glowing fire. After a 
rest and lunch we continued our descent. An hour's ride 
after we reached the base brought us to our Jefferson 
"home" again, delighted with the day's experience. The 
sun went down in great glory, and the weather 

13 



14000 MILES 

authorities declared the morrow would be a fine day for 
Mt. Washington ; so, despite stiffened and aching joints, 
we took our breakfast at halfpast five, and at six o'clock 
we were snugly packed in our phaeton, with blankets and 
wraps all in use, for it was cold. Our good horse felt the 
inspiration of the morning, and we started off briskly on 
our thirteen miles' drive over Cherry Mountain to the 
Fabyan House, where we took the early train up Mt. 
Washington. Everybody does this, so we will leave 
without comment, except on the unusual clearness of the 
view, and hasten to our driving. 

We reached Fabyan's again after the slow descent at 
half-past four. Our carriage was ready ; and in less than 
five minutes we were on our way. Passing the Crawford 
House, with its attractive surroundings, we entered the 
Notch. What grandeur! Such a contrast to the quiet 
beauty of the Franconia Notch ! The road through this 
narrow gap is very rough, with only here and there a 
place where vehicles can meet or pass, and constant 
watchfulness is required. We spent the night at the 
Willey House, with Mt. Webster looming up before us, 
and Mt. Willard and others near by shutting us in 
completely. We reluctantly left this quiet spot. The 
drive to North Conway was full of picturesque beauty; 
then, as we journeyed, the mountains dwindled into hills, 
the lovely meadows became pasture land, and Nature 
seemed dressed in every-day attire. 

Not yet satisfied, we turned toward the seashore again, 
following the coast from Newburyport to Gloucester, 
this time rounding Cape Ann, delighted with the unsus- 
pected charms of Pigeon Cove, and spending a night at 

14 



14000 MILES 

"Squam." Our next day's drive through Magnolia, 
Manchester-by-the-Sea and Beverly Farms took us to 
the Essex House, Salem, where our course meets that of 
the "other two." The interesting account of their drive 
to this point need not be repeated, as we retrace their 
steps through Marblehead, Swampscott, Lynn and 
Saugus, thence to Boston. Here we visited, and our 
horse rested a few days, when he proved himself more 
than equal to the forty miles in one day, which ended our 
last summer's journey. 

These recollections have been put together on the cars 
(literally at railroad speed), without reference to diary, 
home letters, map or guidebook, and briefly outline our 
nine journeys and about three thousand miles' driving. 
We have told you very little of our every-day enjoyment. 
The perfect ease and safety with which we have accom- 
plished this we attribute mainly to extreme caution and 
constant consideration for our horse, and we are full of 
courage for the future. We have friendly invitations 
from Maine to Colorado and Wyoming, and trust we 
may be spared to visit at least one of these points, when 
we celebrate our tenth anniversary. 



15 



CHAPTER II. 

CHRONICLE OF THE TENTH ANNUAL DRIVE. 

Some of the many readers of the Transcript may 
remember seeing in its columns about one year ago (Dec. 
27, 1880) a letter under the heading "Summer Travels in 
a Phaeton," which gave an outline of nearly three 
thousand miles' driving by two ladies in nine successive 
summer journeys. Since then we two ladies have enjoyed 
our tenth anniversary, and will tell you something about 
this last journey, which lost no charms from having 
become an old story. 

Many times during the winter and spring came the 
query, "Shall you take your carriage journey next sum- 
mer?" and as many times we answered "We hope so," 
but often with a smothered doubt, as we thought of the 
fate of hosts of "best-laid plans," and feared we would 
not always be exceptions to such a general rule. 

As the early summer weeks passed, the obstacles multi- 
plied; after a while circumstances began to combine in 
our favor, and by the 15th of August the way was clear 
for a start. A new difficulty now arose. Where could 
we go? 

All through the year we had thought of Maine, which 
was sufficient reason why we should not go there, for we 
never go where we have thought of going. We have 
driven through the valley of the Connecticut, and along 
the coast from Newport, R. I., to Wells, Me., over the 

16 



14000 MILES 

Berkshire Hills, up to Lake Winnipiseogee four times, 
all through the White Mountains, over the Green Moun- 
tains to Lake Champlain, Lake George and Saratoga, and 
taken in all the big hills, little mountains, inhabited island 
and country resorts on the way. Where should we find 
"new worlds to conquer"? In our perplexity, we remem- 
bered that a party of friends were in Dublin, N. H., for 
the summer, and resolved to make that our starting point. 

The morning of the 15th of August dawned bright and 
cool, and we held our wraps close about us, as we stowed 
ourselves away for the tenth time in our same cosy 
phaeton, with all our equipments in the way of bags, 
straps, waterproofs, umbrellas, books, maps, writing 
materials, fancy work, lunch basket, and — the only thing 
we take which we never use — our revolver. 

Our first day's drive was very enjoyable; the air was 
so cool we could not dispense with our wraps even at 
midday. We said good-morning to our friends in Fitch- 
burg, rested our horse, and sent our first mail home at 
Ashburnham, lunched by the wayside, surprised friends 
from Boston who were rusticating in the berry pastures 
of Rindge, and finally passed the night at East Jaffrey, 
the only place in the vicinity where we had not proposed 
spending the first night. The hotel proprietor was 
suffering from a recent sunstroke, but had recovered 
sufficiently to provide every comfort, including a fire in 
our room, and after another contribution to the mail, 
refreshing sleep and a good breakfast, we were ready for 
our morning drive to Dublin, where we found our friends 
delightfully located in the suburbs, close by the lovely 
Monadnock Lake, with the grand old mountain looming 

17 



14000 MILES 

up on the opposite shore. We lost no time, but proceeded 
to "do" Dublin, inspired by the cool, bracing atmosphere. 
We walked and talked, rode and rowed, and verified all 
the glowing descriptions, even to sifting the sand on the 
lake shore for garnets. 

It now became necessary to decide in which direction 
to journey. As we drove towards the village next morn- 
ing, it occurred to us that we had made a great omission 
in "doing" Dublin, not having called on the post- 
master ; in the words of another, "Our genial, ubiquitous 
postmaster, whose talents are so universal, whose 
resources so unlimited that he will build you a house, 
match your worsted, stock your larder, buy a horse, put 
up your stove, doctor your hens or cash a check with 
equal promptness, skill and courtesy." Surely, he could 
help us. We took our maps to him, and asked a few 
questions, but, strange to say, he did not seem to get any 
definite idea of what we wanted, and, after a little hesita- 
tion, politely inquired, "Where do you wish to go?" We 
then hesitated, and as politely replied, "We do not know ; 
we are driving, and would like to go where we have never 
been, and return by a different route." Immediately his 
face brightened, he pointed out various places of interest, 
to which we could only say, "Yes, very delightful; but 
we have been there." 

Finally, he produced a map of his own, and soon 
started us off somewhere, I forget where, and, perhaps, 
we did not go there at all. Suffice it to say, we now felt 
Dublin was "done," and turned our horse north, as we 
always do, when at a loss. 

On we drove through Hancock, Bennington, Antrim 

18 



14000 MILES 

and Hillsborough, wondering where we should find our- 
selves at night. We referred to our map and decided to 

go to , but on making inquiries at a farmhouse, the 

woman consulted her goodman and advised us not to go 
there, for a passing stranger had told them the hotel was 
filled to overflowing, and the dancing hall, dining-room 
and neighbors' houses were occupied. She was much 
interested, and said, "If you do not wish to drive much 
farther, there is a little village two miles on, and widow 
—sometimes puts up people." We had driven far 
enough, and thought it best to make a trial of private 
hospitality. It was a new experience, we had never been 
"put up," and felt as if we were imposing upon the good 
old lady as we lifted the knocker and asked if we could 
stay there over night. She looked at us over her glasses, 
then sent her one boarder to take care of our horse, while 
she helped us deposit our innumerable things in the 
"spare room." We quietly put the. revolver in a safe 
place, and glanced at each other as we thought, "What 
would she say?" 

Widow and her boarder had supped, but soon a 

supper was prepared for us in the sitting-room, which we 
lazily enjoyed seated in old-fashioned rocking-chairs. 
After our cosy repast we went to the barn to see how 
Charlie was faring. He looked at us as if he thought 
meal a poor return for his day's service, and we went to 
the "store" for oats. Several bystanders assured us it 
was a bad season for oats, and advised corn ; but an old 
gentleman enlisted himself in our behalf, and said we 
should have some oats in the morning if he had to go 
to , two miles away, for them. 

19 



14000 MILES 

We went up to the churchyard to watch the sunset 
clouds, strolled down to the bridge, and when it grew 
dark we went "home." Our hostess borrowed a yester- 
day's paper, as we were anxious for the latest news from 
the President, and after reading we crocheted and 
chatted. The good lady opened her heart to us, and 
freely poured forth her lifetime joys and sorrows. 
Speaking of the children and grandchildren reminded 
her how much she enjoyed the seraphine in the other 
room when they visited her. We said we would like to 
try it, when she ea'gerly proposed having it brought into 
the sitting-room, where it was warm. We moved it for 
her, and sang through all the psalm-tune and Moody and 
Sankey books we could find. Our friend was very grate- 
ful, and when at a late hour we proposed removing the 
instrument to its proper place, she said, "Oh! leave it, 
and perhaps you will sing one more tune in the morning." 
We rested well on a feather bed, in an unpretentious 
room, with odds and ends of furniture and ware which 
would tempt the enthusiastic relic hunters, and break- 
fasted in the kitchen. While waiting for Charlie, we 
sang another gospel hymn, and the good lady once more 
thanked us, saying she always liked to take care of good 
people, and really rather "put up" a gentleman than a tin 
peddler. 

The day was misty and disagreeable, but on we went, 
imagining the charms of Sunapee Lake on a bright, 
sunny day, as we followed its shores, and resting and 
writing at Newport. Here, too, we again considered our 
course, but with no inclination to face about. We talked 
of going to Claremont and following the river, but were 

20 



14000 MILES 

advised to keep our present direction and avoid the sandy 
valley roads. We left Newport without any idea where 
we should find shelter for the night, as hotels were 
scarce, but before dark we were again very comfortably 
"put up." 

The clouds were heavy next morning when we 
resumed our driving, and in the afternoon the rain fell in 
torrents. When the first shower came, we drove under a 
church shed for protection, but after a half-hour we con- 
cluded time was too precious to be spent in that way, so 
put aside our books and prepared to brave the storm. 
Our courage and waterproofs were put to the test, but 
neither failed, and at night we hung ourselves up to dry 
in a little country tavern. 

The next day we crossed the Connecticut River into 
Thetford, leaving New Hampshire to begin our wan- 
derings in Vermont; and wanderings they proved to be, 
for the first day at least. We were in the region of 
copper mines and of friends, but we did not know exactly 
where either the mines or the friends were to be found. 
We drove to West Fairlee, for we had ordered our mail 
forwarded there, and our first letters from home were 
eagerly anticipated. The news was good, and after dinner 
we began inquiries about our mining explorations. 
There seemed to be as many opinions as there were 
people, but we started off at last with directions to turn 
twice to the right, go two miles, leave the red school- 
house to the left, cross a bridge, go down a hill and 
through Bear or Bare Gap (we never found out which), 
strike a new road, etc. We were not sure that we 
remembered the precise order of these directions, but we 

21 



14000 MILES 

did strike a new road, and went down a hill — such a hill ! 
We preferred walking, and Charlie was willing to be led, 
so that difficulty was overcome. After quite an after- 
noon's experience we found a little hotel, where we 
passed the night, and next morning we retraced the latter 
part of our drive in search of Pike Hill, where we were 
told we should find friends and mines all together. 

We were heartily welcomed and initiated into the 
mysteries of mining, and collected some specimens, all of 
which were very interesting to us. 

It would seem as if we ought now to be content to 
turn towards home; but, after some deliberation, we 
convinced ourselves it was advisable to go a little farther, 
now we had got so far, for we might not have another 
opportunity so good. "A bird in the hand," you know, 
and it is just as true of a horse. So, after supper and a 
little music, we got together a good supply of maps, and 
organized our friends into a geography class. We were 
very familiar with our own map, but drove into the 
northern margin last year, and now we seemed likely to 
entirely overstep its borders. As we studied and ques- 
tioned our friends, we began to feel as if we could go 
anywhere; but prudence prompted us to follow the line 
of the railroad, so we traced the towns along the 
Passumpsic, and pinned the precious scrap of paper to 
our map. 

We watched the clouds until half-past ten next day 
(we never heed the weather except we are with friends, 
who always think it seems inhospitable to let us drive off 
in a storm) ; then started for Wells River, a drive of 
thirty-one miles. This was the first time since we left 

22 



14000 MILES 

home that we had any idea in the morning where we 
should sleep at night. The twelve-miles' drive to Brad- 
ford was as lovely as our friends described it; the road 
follows Wait's River very closely nearly all the way; it 
is a clear stream, with a bright, stony bottom, much more 
beautiful than many larger rivers with greater reputation. 

We lunched as we drove, on bread and honey, the last 
sweet gift of our friends at Pike Hill, then rested our 
horse and made our daily contribution to the mail at 
Bradford. We had our prettiest view of the Connecticut 
that afternoon as we drove through Newbury and made 
another of our "surprise calls" on friends visiting in that 
vicinity. 

Our landlord at Wells River, an old gentleman, made 
many inquiries when he found we lived very near his 
birthplace. His face brightened as we told him of his 
friends, who were our next-door neighbors, and he won- 
dered at the distance we had driven "alone." 

It seemed quite natural to make another start with 
uncertainty before us. We followed the Connecticut to 
Barnet, and just as we left the hotel, after two hours' 
rest, the contents of a huge black cloud were poured upon 
us ; it was such a deluging rain, that as soon as we were 
out of the village we drove under a tree for partial 
shelter, and while waiting, finished up our honey. We 
got to St. Johnsbury in advance of our mail, and ordered 
it forwarded to Newport, thinking we might leave our 
horse for a day or two, and take a little trip by rail. 

Strange as it may seem to those unused to such aimless 
wanderings, we went on and on, facing north at every 
fresh start, and gathering a bright bunch of golden-rod 

23 



14000 MILES 

for our carriage each morning, as we walked up the long, 
sandy hills (no wraps needed now), and winding about 
such queer, forlorn roads, with fields of burnt stumps and 
disagreeable marshes on either side, our map "annex" 
and infallible guide, the Passumpsic, assuring us we were 
not lost, until one bright morning we drove into 
Newport, and a "trip by rail" had not even been men- 
tioned. 

As we drove leisurely along the main street, taking our 
first look at Lake Memphremagog, a friend from Boston 
stepped off the piazza of the hotel and recognized us, as 
he paused to allow our carriage to pass. When recovered 
from his surprise, that we had strayed so far from home, 
he told us he was on his way to meet his family, and pitch 
his tents on the shores of the lake about twenty miles 
from Newport, and suggested we should drive to George- 
ville, and visit their camp. Now we realized the 
convenience of having no plans to change, and went 
directly to inquire about the roads, and secure oats for 
Charlie, lest we should find none on our way. People 
generally go by boat, but we were assured we should find 
good roads. Having learned by experience that "good 
roads" in Vermont take one up and down such hills as in 
Massachusetts we should drive many miles to avoid, we 
asked more particularly about the hills. "Oh ! yes, a little 
hilly, but a good road." So with minute directions for 
the lake-shore route, we left our friend to the mercy of 
the waters, while we traveled by land. We never knew 
when we crossed the Derby line, for we were absorbed in 
watching for a turn which would take us near the lake, 

24 



14000 MILES 

but we learned after a while that our "lake-shore road" 
was a mile inland. "A little mite hilly" ! We went up 
and down such hills as we never saw but in dreams, lead- 
ing our good Charlie, who picked his way very cautiously. 
At the top of a high hill we found a house, and a little 
Canadian girl said we could stop there, if we could take 
care of our horse; she assisted us in unharnessing and 
arranging a place for Charlie and his oats. We declined 
kind invitations to go into the house, and spread our 
blanket under a tree, where we had a fine view of Owl's 
Head. Our little friend brought us milk and fruit, and 
after our lunch we wrote for an hour, then resumed our 
driving, in blissful ignorance of the fact that the worst 
hills were yet before us. We met men leading their 
horses, which encouraged us to feel that our precaution 
was not feminine timidity. The last hill reminded us of 
our drive over Hoosac Mountain. We left Newport at 
10 A. M., and at 6 P. M. we arrived at the Camperdown 
House in Georgeville, a quaint Canadian village, feeling 
as if we had driven or walked one hundred miles, rather 
than twenty. 

We were cordially received at this most homelike of 
places, and a room was 4 ready for us. Our windows 
opened on the piazza, which was shaded by a row of cut 
spruce trees that were replaced by fresh ones occasion- 
ally. After supper we strolled down to the boat landing 
and took a survey of the lake and fine shore scenery. We 
have not time or space to tell you all we enjoyed while 
there. We spent the days in "camp" and the nights at 
the Camperdown, going back and forth in a row-boat, the 

25 



14000 MILES 

Nymph, our friend's steam yacht, or driven at breakneck 
speed by one of the party who considered those perpen- 
dicular hills "good roads." 

Only those who have tried it know the charms of 
camping. From the time the one whose turn it is goes 
over the pastures to get the cream for breakfast, until the 
last one is served to cocoa at night, there is something to 
do, and that which is work at home becomes pastime on 
the borders of a lovely lake, with fresh air and good 
company. We fish with great interest when a dinner 
depends on our success; then, while the potatoes are 
boiling is just the time for bathing, after which, the table 
spread under the overarching trees looks very inviting. 
When all have helped to clear away and "do up" the 
dishes, then comes a time to separate for an hour — some 
to write, some to sleep, and others to read Spanish, 
English, prose or poetry, according to taste and ability. 
As the afternoon wears away, some one proposes a 
sunset row, and so the time too quickly flies. Rainy 
days have a charm of their own, and all the sympathy 
for "those people in camp" is wasted. 

We shall not soon forget our trip to Magog in the 
Nymph. There were eight of us that afternoon, and we 
had a delightful sail. We left the gentlemen to find 
supplies of wood for our return trip (sometimes we 
helped saw and carry), while we ladies went shopping. 
We found a little store where tools, groceries, dry goods, 
jewelry and confectionery were kept; they had no axe, 
the only thing we wanted, so we bought lace pins at five 
cents a pair. The clerk quietly asked if we were going to 
have a thunder storm, which startled us, and we lost no 

26 



14000 MILES 

time in getting back to the boat. Clouds gather rapidly 
on Lake Memphremagog, and our three hours' sail 
looked long. We kept the steam up, and talked about 
everything but a shower until dark, when we were quiet, 
and observed, with only casual comment, the clouds 
which grew blacker and blacker, hiding the stars, and 
occasionally obscuring a light-house. We watched 
eagerly for the light we had left on the "Point" to guide 
us into our little harbor, but the wind had blown it out. 
One of the party took a row-boat (we had two with us) 
and went in search of our landing; the rising wind 
drowned the calls back and forth, but after a few anxious 
moments, a welcome light glimmered on the shore, and 
soon we heard the splashing of the oars. It was with 
difficulty the boat was guided to the Nymph, and just as 
the last boat-load was leaving her to go ashore, the storm 
burst in sudden fury over our heads. We rushed to the 
tents and gave up rowing or riding to the Camperdown 
that night. After securing the boats, the gentlemen, 
came in dripping, but quite ready for the lunch prepared 
by quick hands We talked it all over as we sipped our 
cocoa, then separated, and soon were lulled to rest by the 
pattering of the rain on the canvas, and the distant rum- 
bling thunder. 

The next day was Sunday, and we enjoyed every hour 
of it. At the time appointed we assembled for service. 
The preacher sat with rubber boots on, and the audience, 
small but appreciative, were in hammocks and cosy 
corners. The sermon was good, and the singing, which 
was congregational, was well sustained. The day was 
not long enough, for it was our last in camp, and we 

27 



14000 MILES 

looked back wishfully as we started off on our last row. 
We reached the Camperdown just as the sun was setting 
in gorgeous splendor. Supper was waiting for the 
"prodigals," and after we had given an account of our- 
selves, we went to our room to plan for the morrow. 

We decided to go to Newport by water, and, as if to 
favor our decision, the morning dawned perfect. It had 
been hazy and yellow for several days, but the veil was 
lifted. Our friends rowed over to see us aboard the 
Lady of the Lake, especially Charlie, who objects to 
water. We sat in the bow, fanned by the soft breezes, 
recalling just such a day on Lake George, while poor 
Charlie was frightened and stamping furiously beneath 
us, evidently thinking some effort on his part was neces- 
sary to effect an escape. 

As we stood on the wharf at Newport an official- 
looking person came to us and asked if that was our 
carriage. We looked inquiringly, and said "Yes." 

"Have you anything you did not carry from the 
States?" 

We now recognized our inquisitor, and answered so 
promptly, "Oh! no," that we quite forgot the pins we 
bought at Magog. Charlie was quite excited, and we 
allowed him to be led to the stable, while we went to the 
Memphremagog House for dinner. We wanted to go to 
Willoughby Lake that afternoon, but we did not antici- 
pate this when we pieced our map, and were now obliged 
to go in search of a new one. We went first for our mail, 
which was fresh to us, though a week old, and ordered 
the letters expected at night returned to St. Johnsbury. 
We found a little advertising map, then started on seem- 

28 



14000 MILES 

ingly a new journey. Charlie had fared as well as we in 
Canada, and our twenty miles' drive was easily accom- 
plished. The glorious sunset and moonrise on Lake 
Willoughby was a fitting close to the day begun on Lake 
Memphremagog. 

We watched the clouds from our window until quite 
late, then drew the shade and pinned to it our map with 
the two supplements. 

For an hour or more we studied diligently, trying to 
find an unfamiliar route home, but all in vain. We had 
jestingly remarked, one day, that "we would go home 
through the mountains to avoid the hills," and as a last 
resort we decided to do so, for that is a drive that will 
bear repeating any number of times. 

The lake was dotted with white-caps next morning, 
and our desire to row was forgotten. We experienced 
our idea of a lakeshore drive as we followed the lovely 
road close to the water's edge for four miles, Mt. Hor 
and Mt. Pisgah towering so high above, and looking as 
if they were one mountain, but rent in twain by some 
convulsion of nature, while the water had rushed in to 
fill the gap, as they drifted apart. The drive was a 
striking contrast to the sandy hills we went over in the 
afternoon, which we remembered too well, but no plan- 
ning could avoid. We passed the night at St. Johnsbury, 
and just as the mail came for which we were waiting, 
Charlie returned from the blacksmith's with his new 
shoes. 

We now turned our faces towards the mountains, 
feeling quite at home as we journeyed off the supple- 
ments on to our old map, and still more so, when after a 

29 



14000 MILES 

long, hot drive, we reached Franconia, where we struck 
the route of our last year's journey, which we must now 
follow all the way, even spending the nights at the same 
places. We took a good view of the mountains at Fran- 
conia, recalling the names of the different peaks, and very 
fortunately, for in the morning there was not one to be 
seen. The sun looked like a huge ball of fire, and the 
atmosphere was very smoky. We drove on, trying to 
realize we were surrounded by grand mountains; but 
not until we were close to them in the Notch could we 
discern the faintest outline, and the "Old Man" looked as 
if dissolving in the clouds. It seemed dreamy and 
mysterious until we got to the Basin, Pool and Flume, 
which were not affected by the atmosphere. 

Our night at Campton passed pleasantly, ' but we 
started in the rain next day for Weirs, Lake Winnipi- 
seogee, where we proposed to rest our horse for a day 
or two. From Plymouth to Weirs is a crooked way, and 
the pouring rain so changed the aspect of everything, 
that we felt every turn was a wrong one. It was chilly 
and disagreeable, but we put on all our wraps, the water- 
proof hoods over our heads, and brought the "boot" close 
up to our chins, then kept warm with ginger cookies. 
From the manner of the people of whom we made 
inquiries as we passed, we suspected our appearance was 
ludicrous. After many twistings and turnings we arrived 
at Hotel Weirs. We had never been there except when 
ministers and meetings abounded, but the place was now 
deserted, and we read "Endymion" instead of being 
preached to four times a day. 

30 



14000 MILES 

After two days' rest we journeyed towards Concord, 
N. H., spending a night with the Canterbury Shakers on 
our way. Sister Philinda thought she remembered us, 
and found our names registered in her book eight years 
ago. The "yellow day" we passed with friends in Con- 
cord. Only two days more ! We wanted to go to Boston 
as we did last year, but thought it best to follow the same 
old route to Milford, which we had been over so many 
times, then varied our course by going through Mason 
instead of Townsend Harbor, although we were told it 
was "very hilly." We knew they were not Vermont or 
Canada hills. This new road, with its charming bits of 
scenery, gave a touch of freshness to the latter part of our 
journey. According to our annual custom, we supped 
with friends in Fitchburg, then drove home by moonlight. 
Nearly four weeks, and just five hundred miles' driving, 
is the brief summing up of our tenth anniversary. 



31 



CHAPTER III. 

OLD ORCHARD AND BOSTON. 

"We shall look for a report of your journey in the 
Transcript," has been said to us many times, and we will 
respond to the interest manifested in our wanderings by 
sharing with our friends through your columns as much 
of our pleasure as is transferable. 

The fact that we had driven between three and four 
thousand miles in ten successive summers by no means 
diminished our desire to go again, and it gave us great 
pleasure when, in reply to "Can we have the horse for a 
journey this summer?" Mr. A. said "Why, I suppose of 
course you will go." We decided to start about the 
middle of July, a little earlier than usual, and one might 
well imagine that in the intervening weeks many routes 
were planned and talked over, but in truth we said 
nothing about it until the last moment, when we asked 
each other, "Have you thought where to go?" and in turn 
each answered "No." It may seem strange and suggest 
lack of purpose, but we like our journeys to make them- 
selves, as a certain novelist says her stories write them- 
selves, and she cannot tell when they begin how they will 
end. 

As we tried to decide which direction to take first, we 
wondered if we ever could have another journey as 
delightful as the last, when we crossed the borders into 
Canada; then we recalled all we enjoyed on our White 

32 



14000 MILES 

Mountain drive, and that suggested never-to-be-forgotten 
roads among the Green Mountains, and again the glories 
of our own Berkshire Hills, and so on until Lake Mem- 
phremagog, the White Mountains, Green Mountains, 
Berkshire Hills, Martha's Vineyard, Lake Winnipiseogee, 
Newport, the Connecticut Valley and the network of 
highways we have traveled were all in a tangle, and there 
seemed to be no places of interest left within our reach. 
Next came to mind the chance suggestion of friends. One 
had said, "Why not take your horse aboard one of the 
Maine steamers and explore that part of the country?" 
Another thought the St. Lawrence drives very delightful, 
and suggested we should take our horse by rail to some 
point in that vicinity. A third only wished we could 
transport ourselves to Colorado to begin our journey. We 
think, however that a carriage journey taken by steamer 
or rail loses something of its genuineness, and brought 
our minds back to the familiar towns and villages adjoin- 
ing our own, through some one of which we must go, and 
somehow decided on Shirley. 

As we packed our "things" into the phaeton for the 
eleventh time, we asked how long such vehicles are 
warranted to last, and felt sure no other could serve us 
as well. The bags, lunch basket, umbrellas and wraps 
seem to know their respective places. Yes, the revolver, 
too, drops instinctively into its hiding place. At last we 
were off, but a half hour was now spent searching the 
shops for a drinking-cup and saying good-morning to 
friends, by which time we thought of a word unsaid at 
home, and dropped our first mail at our own postoffice. 
Our "reporter," watching for items while waiting for his 

33 



14000 MILES 

mail, was attracted by our traveling outfit and eagerly 
"interviewed" us, but with little satisfaction, as you may 
well know. That we were going to Shirley, six miles 
distant, was of little interest to him or his readers. 

We now started in real earnest and soon were on the 
winding road to Shirley. We took our first wayside 
lunch before we got to Groton, where Charlie had two 
hours' rest, and we passed the time pleasantly with 
friends. An uneventful drive of ten miles in the after- 
noon brought us to Westford, where we spent the first 
night. There is no hotel in the place, but we found a 
good woman who took care of us, and a jolly blacksmith 
opposite who promised good care for our horse. We 
strolled down street in the evening and called on friends 
who were enjoying country air and rest for a few weeks. 
Our sleep was refreshing, and morning found us ready 
for an early start somewhere, but exactly where we had 
no idea. After a brief consultation we concluded we 
should like to go to the Isles of Shoals again, and accord- 
ingly we traced the way on our map towards Portsmouth, 
N. H. It was hot and dusty, and we passed through 
Lowell with no inclination to stop, but when out of sight 
of the city with its heat and dust and rattling machin- 
ery, we left Charlie to enjoy his dinner and took our 
books in the shade down by the Merrimac River, and 
were fanned by its breezes for two hours. The drive 
through Lawrence to Haverhill, where we passed the 
second night, was quite pleasant. 

The chief recollections of the thirty-two miles we 
traveled the next day are a few drops of rain in the 
morning, just enough to aggravate, for we were almost 

34 



14000 MILES 

ready to welcome a deluge ; Jumbo, whose wake we had 
struck, and the green beach-flies. The proprietor of the 
quiet tavern where we took our mid-day rest brought us 
"Jumbo Illustrated" for our literary entertainment, and 
told us his probable losses on horse-hire, etc., the follow- 
ing month, on account of all the people in the vicinity 
giving their money to Barnum. He also assured us the 
"green heads" would trouble us for about three miles. 
True to prophecy, they took possession of our horse and 
phaeton for that distance, then disappeared as suddenly 
as they came. We speculated as to their habits of life; 
wondered why they did not stay on the beach, where 
their name implies they belong, and why they did not 
steal five miles' ride as well as three ; then thought how 
humiliating it would be to feel compelled to turn away 
from the seashore overcome by an insignificant insect, 
when we could follow our own sweet will for all fear of 
highway robbers, or a Jumbo even. 

Night found us at Portsmouth, where the discomfort 
was in keeping with the day, and it was with pleasure we 
granted our horse a rest in the morning and took passage 
ourselves for the Isles of Shoals. The day was perfect 
on the water — so fresh and cool. We landed at Apple- 
dore, and an hour passed very quickly as we met one 
friend after another. Suddenly a thunderstorm burst 
upon us; the rain fell in torrents, and hailstones rolled 
like marbles along the broad piazza. Surely the deluge 
we wished for had come, and, although it was not needed 
where water was everyhere, it could do no harm, and we 
enjoyed it to the utmost. We had planned to spend the 
night amid ocean, but it was so glorious after the skies 

35 



14000 MILES 

cleared, we could not resist the temptation to have a 
di ive while Nature was fresh and dripping. After dinner, 
we visited Mrs. Celia Thaxter's fascinating parlor; then 
took the boat for Portsmouth. The calm after the storm 
was delightful, and we sailed on, full of anticipation for 
our drive. 

On reaching Portsmouth we were surprised to learn it 
had been intensely hot all day, and not a drop of rain had 
fallen. It was too late to repent, and we ordered our 
horse, drove to the post office for our mail, our first news 
from home, then started for the ocean again. Our enthu- 
siasm was somewhat abated by the sultry atmosphere; 
but a drive of eight miles brought us to York Beach, and 
a brisk walk on the hard, moist sand while the sunset 
^ clouds were fading quite restored us. 

The next morning we drove leisurely along the beach, 
looking for familiar faces we knew were in that vicinity, 
from the East and West, visited one party after another, 
and in the afternoon drove on through Wells to Kenne- 
bunk. We had another visitation from the beach flies, 
but this time their persecutions continued for only a mile 
and a half. We looked in vain for a hotel in Kennebunk, 
and on inquiring were directed to a house attractively 
located, which we had thought to be a very pleasant 
private residence. The homelikeness inside harmonized 
with the exterior, and the host and hostess helped us to 
pass the evening very agreeably. This was only one of 
many proofs of Maine hospitality. 

Before leaving Kennebunk we called at the home of a 
lady, one of the many pleasant people we have met in our 
summer wanderings, and promised to remember, "if we 

36 



14000 MILES 

ever drove that way." She is the mother of Lizzie 
Bourne, whose sad story and monument of stones every 
visitor to Mt. Washington will remember. 

At Kennebunkport we surprised a party of young 
friends on the cliffs, and made another promised call. We 
found the place with some difficulty, and learned our 
friend was in Massachusetts. We thought hospitality 
reigned supreme there, when we and our horse were 
taken bodily possession of for luncheon and a three- 
hours' visit, by a lady whom we had never seen before. 
Every moment passed pleasantly, and we reluctantly left 
our new-found friend en route to Old Orchard, towards 
which point we had been driving for days, just as if it 
had all been planned instead of "happening." 

It was our first visit to this favorite resort, and we 
stayed several days, waiting for letters, and doing what 
everybody does at such places — driving, walking and 
gathering shells on the beach; reading, chatting and 
crocheting on the piazzas, occasionally wondering where 
we should find ourselves next. The heat was almost 
insufferable — land breeze night and day. Perhaps we 
could have borne it better if we had known then that the 
invalid we watched with some interest was Vennor him- 
self, sharing with the rest the tortures of the fulfilment 
of his prophecies. As it was we were ready for a change. 
Our letters assured us all was well at home, and we 
decided to drive across country to Lake Winnipiseogee. 

As we sat at the breakfast table the morning we were 
to leave, a lady at our right casually addressed us, and 
when she learned we were driving for pleasure enthusi- 
astically exclaimed, "Oh! you must visit Hollis, a 

37 



14000 MILES 

deserted village on the Saco." She fascinated us with 
her description of that quiet nook she had chosen for a 
summer resting place, and the charmed circle of friends 
there, and offered us her rooms which she had left for a 
few days, if we would spend a night there, at the same 
time wishing we might meet all her friends and assuring 
us of a kindly reception. We thought this the climax of 
Maine hospitality. Only a moment before we were entire 
strangers, except that we recognized the face of our 
friend as one well known in the literary circles of Boston. 
We referred to our map, and found Hollis directly in our 
course, but unfortunately, only about half the distance 
we had proposed driving that day. We promised, how- 
ever, to take dinner there, if possible. 

We rarely spend more than one night in a place, and as 
we packed ourselves into our phaeton once more it 
seemed like starting on a fresh journey. Old Orchard 
has its charms ; still we rejoiced as we left the scorching 
sand. The drive of seventeen miles to Hollis seemed 
short, and it was only eleven o'clock when we introduced 
ourselves to our new friends, and so very friendly were 
they that after an hour's chat in the parlor and a pleasant 
dinner company we were loth to leave, and stated the 
rest of our friend's proposition to the lady of the house, 
whereupon we were taken to the promised apartments, 
and at once made to feel at home. The heat was hardly 
less intense than on the beach, and we passed the after- 
noon pleasantly indoors. Supper was served early, as 
one of the ladies proposed a walk to the charm of Hollis, 
the Saco River. Only a few rods from the house we 
entered the woods and followed the little path up and 

38 



14000 MILES 

down, picking our way carefully over the swampy places, 
occasionally losing balance as we stepped on a loose 
stone, until we reached the favorite spot by a great rock 
overhanging the river bank. Our ears were deafened 
and voices silenced by the mighty roaring of the waters 
as they angrily surged through the narrow gorge. As 
far back as we could see there was nothing but the foam- 
ing white and the high wet rocks on either side. We gave 
ourselves up to the roar and turmoil, and thought the 
stirring life and restless activity of this bit of the Saco 
was worth the whole Atlantic Ocean. It was growing 
dark in the woods, and we had to take a last look and 
retrace our steps while we could see the path. A wish 
was expressed by our lady escort that we might meet a 
delightful company of friends a mile or two from the 
village whom we felt we knew already, through our 
friend at the beach, who had also mentioned this as a part 
of the pleasant programme she planned for us. Our 
phaeton was soon at the door, and we exchanged our 
rubbers for wraps and were off in the moonlight, assured 
it was perfectly safe all about there, night or day. Of 
course our friend knew all the pretty roundabout ways, 
and we had a lovely drive. The pleasant call we shall 
never forget, and as we drove back, the "short cut" across 
the pastures was pointed out as a favorite summer- 
evening walk. We did not sleep that night until we had 
written our friend, thanking her for all we had enjoyed 
through her kindness. But for her we should probably 
have driven through Hollis with no recollection save one 
glimpse of the Saco. 

Directly after breakfast next morning we bade our 

39 



14000 MILES 

friends good-by, promising to report to them from 
Weirs which of the various routes suggested we took. 
There is no direct way, for it is literally across country, 
and we felt as if we were leaving everybody and had 
nothing but a wilderness between us and Lake Win- 
nipiseogee. The morning drive was hot and very un- 
interesting, no ocean or mountains, river or hills, nothing 
but sandy roads and dry pastures. 

We inquired the "best way" to Wolfeboro every time 
we saw anybody to inquire of, and as we refreshed our- 
selves with sardines by the wayside, wondered where 
Charlie was to get his dinner. We asked at a grocery 
store when we got to Newfield, and were told that a 
widow near by accommodated travelers. We found her 
very willing if we could take care of the horse ourselves, 
for she had no "men folks." 

Despite our fatigue, as necessity compelled, we unhar- 
nessed Charlie and gave him some corn — she had no 
oats. We went into the little sitting-room to wait, but 
not to rest, for our hostess was very social. After being 
entertained for an hour and a half, we carried a pail of 
water to the barn for Charlie, and harnessed him. We 
asked the amount of our indebtedness, when her ladyship 
mentioned a sum exceeding what we often pay at first- 
class hotels, where our horse is well groomed and grained 
— not by ourselves — blandly remarking at the same time 
that she "did not believe in high prices." 

Our map is not much help when traveling bias, and we 
wondered next where we should sleep. It was only a 
few miles to the little village of West Newfield, and 
again we went to a grocery store for information. Our 

40 



14000 MILES 

many inquiries were very courteously answered, and one 
or two hotels within a few miles were mentioned. At 
this point a young man came forward, commenting on 
the modesty of the storekeeper, whom he said was the 
hotel proprietor as well, and advised us to stay where we 
were sure of good care, as we should be no nearer Wolfe- 
boro at either of the places suggested. We were directed 
to a modest house, one-story front, which we had just 
passed, where the wife of the gentlemanly storekeeper, 
hotel proprietor and farmer also, we afterward learned, 
kindly received us and gave us a cosy front room on the 
first floor. We soon felt we were in a home, as well as a 
hotel, and we sat on the front doorstep writing letters till 
dark, then talked of our friends in Hollis. How long ago 
it all seemed ! And yet we only left there that morning. 

There was not a sound to disturb our slumbers that 
night, and we awoke fresh for our drive of twenty-five 
miles to Wolfeboro. It was still hot, but the drive was a 
striking contrast to that of the day previous. We were 
approaching the rough country which borders Lake 
Winnipiseogee, and more than once fancied ourselves 
among the Berkshire hills. We stopped at a farmhouse 
for a pitcher of milk, and took a little lunch sitting on a 
stone wall under a large tree. The good old people 
begged us to go into the house, but we assured them we 
preferred the wall, and when we returned the pitcher, 
they had come to the conclusion that it might be pleasant 
to eat out of doors once in a while. We knew they had 
watched us through the curtain cracks in the front room. 

Every mile now, the country was more and more 
delightful, so wild and hilly. Up and down we went, 

41 



14000 MILES 

getting glimpses of the lake from the top of a high hill, 
then wending our way into the valley only to go up 
again. It sometimes seemed as if nothing but a plunge 
would ever bring us to the lake, but after much twisting 
and turning, we reached Wolfeboro and drove up to The 
Pavilion at two o'clock. We left our horse and traveling 
equipments in charge until called for, and in an hour 
went on board the Lady of the Lake. Now we felt 
really at home, but the charms of Lake Winnipiseogee 
are only increased by familiarity, and we never enjoyed 
it more. At Weirs Landing a friendly face greeted us, 
one always present at the Grove meetings. We secured 
at Hotel Weirs the room we had last year, and then went 
out in search of friends, and found them from the East, 
West, North and South. We surprised them all, for they 
had heard indirectly only the day before that we had 
started on our journey with usual indefiniteness, except 
that we were not going to Weirs. 

The two or three days we spent there were interspersed 
with sermons, friendly reunions, rowing, and a trip to 
Wolfeboro on The Gracie, with a party of twenty. The 
talented company, the glories of the lake and shore 
scenery by daylight, the sunset tints, the moon in its full 
beauty, and the lightning darting through the black 
clouds in the distant north, with now and then a far-away 
rumbling of thunder, made a rare combination. 

The next day, Saturday, was very bright, and we made 
sure of one more pleasant sail. The Lady of the Lake 
landed us at Wolfeboro at four o'clock, and we 
immediately ordered our horse, and made inquiries about 
hotels, roads and distances. We learned that hills 

42 



14000 MILES 

abounded and that hotels were few and poor, and that 
Alton Bay was the only place where we would be sure of 
good accommodations; that the distance was twelve 
miles, and the road the roughest in the vicinity. We did 
not care to go to Alton Bay, as we had been there on a 
previous journey, but it seemed our wisest course. At 
different times we had driven entirely around the lake, 
except this twelve miles, and we knew what to expect 
without the emphatic assurance of the clerk. We started 
off full of enthusiasm to surmount all difficulties, drew 
forth the revolver from the bottom of the bag, where it 
had been stowed away during our stay at Weirs, and 
amused ourselves by keeping tally of the hills, fifteen by 
actual count ! They were long and high, too, but the fine 
views fully compensated us, and we knew Charlie was 
equal to the effort, for we had not forgotten the Canada 
hills he took us over last year. It was dark when we 
reached Alton Bay, and we were quite ready to enjoy the 
comforts that awaited us. 

While our friends we had left at Weirs were preaching 
and being preached to, we quietly enjoyed the Sunday 
hours in our pleasant parlor overlooking the lake, 
reading and resting from our rough drive. At sunset we 
strolled to the water's edge, sat down in an anchored 
rowboat and watched the clouds, which were grandly 
beautiful, looking at first like an immense conflagration, 
then resolving into black, smoky clouds as the last rosy 
tint faded. 

Monday was a perfect day and Charlie was as fresh for 
the twenty-eight miles to Dover as we were. The road 
was familiar, but seemed none the less pleasant. At 

43 



14000 MILES 

Rochester we looked for the hotel, with beautiful 
hanging baskets all around the piazza, where we spent 
a night two years ago on our homeward drive from the 
mountains. Just after supper at Dover we heard a great 
chorus of bells, whistles and puffing engines. There was 
a fire just across the street, and we watched the devour- 
ing flames and the feather beds and bundles as they were 
thrown from the second story window into the drenched 
street, until the excitement was over, then went out for 
a walk. That night we packed up a little more than 
usual and planned what to do in case of fire, for our bag- 
gage is necessarily so limited on these journeys we should 
miss even the smallest article. Our precaution insured uS 
sweet sleep and we took an early leave of Dover 
for Exeter, where we rested two hours, then started for 
Epping. Suddenly we changed our minds, faced about 
and went to Kingston. We had never been in Kingston. 
If we had, we never should have faced that way again; 
for the best hotel was the poorest we had yet found, and 
the drive to Haverhill the next day very uninteresting. 
We fully appreciated the dry retort of a chatty old man, 
who gave us some directions, then asked where we came 
from that morning — "Kingston Plains! Good Lord!" 

The drive from Haverhill to Andover was quite 
pleasant. We arrived there at three o'clock in the after- 
noon, and although we had driven but twenty miles, at 
once decided to go no farther that day. The heat was 
still oppressive, and no rain had fallen since we left home, 
except the shower at the Isles of Shoals. We made 
ourselves as comfortable as possible with books and 
lemonade. "Another pleasant day !" we said with a sigh, 

44 



14000 MILES 

next morning. We were really longing for one of our 
cosy rainy-day drives. 

Lowell and Lawrence were in our direct homeward 
route, but to avoid those places we had full directions to 
Littleton, and started in good faith for that place, but 
came across a guideboard which said, "Boston, twenty 
miles," in the opposite direction. The temptation was 
too great, and once more we faced about. We called on 
friends as we drove through Reading and Maplewood, 
and finally found ourselves at Point of Pines. The heat 
and discomfort we had experienced were all forgotten 
there. The brilliant illuminations and the music made 
the evening hours delightful. The cool night was a 
luxury indeed. We spent the morning on the piazza with 
friends, and, after an early luncheon, drove into Boston 
via Chelsea Ferry. Oh! how hot it was! We thought 
there had been a change in the weather, but concluded 
we had been told truly, that it is always cool at the 
"Point." 

The crowded city streets distract Charlie, but we 
succeeded in wending our way to Devonshire street, 
where we got the latest news from home from a friend. 
Our last mail we had received at Weirs. We did a little 
shopping on Winter street, and then left the busy city 
for Cambridge, and on through Arlington and Lexington 
to Concord, a drive one cannot take too often, so full is it 
of historic interest. As we near the home of Emerson, 
Thoreau, Hawthorne, and the Alcotts, and the monu- 
ments of Revolutionary interest, the very atmosphere 
seems full of recollections and reminiscences. The noble 
words of Emerson, the hermit life of Thoreau, the 

45 



14000 MILES 

fascinating writings of Hawthorne, transcendental 
people, "Little Women" and cousins just like other 
people, are all confused with skirmishes with the 
English, and the effort to realize it is all true. We 
have experienced this ecstasy more than once before, and 
it has faded away naturally as we drove on, but this time 
the spell was broken suddenly. We stopped at the hotel 
and found it just like a hundred other country taverns, 
not a suggestion of anything transcendental, and we felt 
as if dropped from the heights into the abyss of common- 
placeness. We tried to rise again by watching from our 
window the passers-by and selecting those who looked 
as if they had been to the Summer School of Philosophy, 
but all in vain, and by the time we were ready to leave in 
the morning our enthusiasm had sunk to the Kingston 
level. 

We had ordered our mails reforwarded from Weirs to 
Fitchburg, and now we were perplexed to know how to 
get them on our way home, when Leominster comes first. 
We studied our map and finally asked directions to 
Littleton again, and this time saw no enticing guideboard. 
We lunched at Ayer, lost our way trying to go from 
Shirley to Lunenburg (we rarely take a wrong road 
except when near home, where we are so sure we know 
we do not ask), and were ready for our two-hours' rest 
when we arrived. The dust we shook off there was 
more than replaced before we reached Fitchburg. So 
many people were driving it was like a trip through the 
clouds; and the heat was so great, with the sun in our 
faces all the way, we set that little drive apart as the 
most uncomfortable of our whole journey. We forgot all 

46 



14000 MILES 

our dusty zigzagging, however, as we drove leisurely 
towards Leominster, reading our letters, which were 
none the less interesting for having been a week in the 
Fitchburg post office. 

Curious friends questioned our knowledge of geog- 
raphy, as they always do when we come from Boston 
through Fitchburg, and go our roundabout ways, but 
many years' experience has convinced us there is more 
beauty in a curved than a straight line. We have taken 
longer journeys, and had better weather, but we shall 
always remember the journey of last summer as one of 
the pleasantest. 



47 



CHAPTER IV. 

MOOSILAUKE AND FRANCONIA NOTCH. 

"You did not take your drive this year, did you? I 
have seen nothing of it in the papers." This oft-repeated 
query, and many similar hints, suggest that we have kept 
the pleasant incidents of our last summer's drive to our- 
selves long enough ; and the kindly interest of friends we 
know, and some we do not know, should be sufficient 
incentive to prompt our pen to tell you all about it. 

Only those who have traveled by carriage nearly four 
thousand miles, within a radius of two hundred miles, in 
twelve successive summers, can appreciate the difficulty 
which increases each year in deciding which way to go. 
Railway travelers escape that difficulty, for they can only 
go where the rails are laid; but we belong to the great 
company of tramps who wander aimlessly, and rarely 
know in the morning where they will rest at night. We 
had only one definite idea when we decided to go some- 
where, and that was, not to go to the seashore, because it 
was hot there last year; we believe in having a reason, 
however senseless it may be. 

During the small hours of the morning of July 13th we 
found ourselves packing. Packing for a carriage journey 
means looking over once more the "must haves" which 
have been carefully selected, to see how many can be 
dispensed with in order to reduce the quantity to the 
amount of "baggage allowed" in a phaeton. This 
allowance is so small that, however limited one's ward- 

48 



14000 MILES 

robe may be, it looks plentiful after a month's absence 
from it. This fact may well be mentioned as one of 
the decided advantages which a journey by carriage has 
over almost every other kind of summer traveling. The 
fewest things possible having been condensed into the 
smallest space possible, we were ready for a start at 
eight o'clock ; but the clouds hung heavy, and we waited 
awhile for the sun to find its way through them; then 
said "good morning" to friends and were off. We drove 
to Fitchburg because we like to start north, and from 
there we went to Ashburnham. Before we left Fitch- 
burg the sun forgot all about us and hid behind the 
clouds, which had no consideration for our desire not to 
get wet the first day, and poured their contents on us 
unsparingly until we got to Ashburnham, where we 
stopped an hour or two. With seeming maliciousness 
the rain ceased during our stay, and began with renewed 
energy directly we were on our way again; and as we 
drove on through Winchendon the thunder and lightning 
rapidly increased. We had quite enjoyed the distant 
rumbling, but it was getting unpleasantly near. The 
freshness of all our equipments was decidedly marred 
when we drove to the hotel in Fitzwilliam, and water- 
proofs and blankets were despatched to the kitchen fire 
to dry. 

We devoted the evening to an earnest debate on "Why 
did we come to Fitzwilliam?" We had not even the 
reason we had for going to Fitchburg, and wherever we 
might drive, it did not seem as if Fitzwilliam was likely 
to be on our way. We do not know yet how it happened, 
unless the thunder and lightning so diverted us that we 

49 



14000 MILES 

did not look on the map to see that Fitzwilliam was not 
on the way to anywhere. It is indeed delightful enough 
to be a terminus, and we were well cared for and ready 
for an early start when the bright morning greeted us. 
We faced toward Jaff rey, but were not out of sight of the 
hotel when we noticed our horse was lame. We drove 
on, thinking he might have stepped on a stone, and would 
soon be all right ; but instead he grew worse, and, as we 
could not discover the cause after careful examination, 
we settled into a walk, and decided to stop at the first 
hotel we came to. 

This was a new experience, and it looked serious. We 
found such slow traveling tiresome, and stopped for an 
hour in a very inviting spot by the wayside, where the 
rocks, under the shade of a large tree, seemed to be 
arranged for our especial comfort. We had luncheon 
from our basket, and read aloud, and watched between 
times the movements of a little green snake that 
evidently considered us intruders and was not disposed 
to give us absolute possession of the place. 

We were refreshed, but Charlie was no better, and we 
were glad when we came to a hotel so pleasantly located 
that we felt we could spend Sunday there very comfort- 
ably, and hoped Charlie would be well by that time. Of 
course our limping condition interested the bystanders, 
and their wise opinions were freely volunteered. One 
said it was a sprain ; another, strained cords of the right 
foot; a third thought the difficulty was in the left foot; 
when the landlord removed his pipe from his mouth and 
wisely declared he did not know, and as he resumed his 
smoking his manner indicated that the horse was as well 

50 



14000 MILES 

as he ever would be. The best of care was promised, and 
to make sure of hitting the right place, the faithful 
hostler compressed both legs. 

We established ourselves comfortably in a large front 
room facing Monadnock, a mountain we never tire of, 
and tried to enjoy as much as other people do who go to 
places to stay, instead of being always on the wing as we 
are. The afternoon and evening passed pleasantly, 
although we occasionally grew retrospective and thought 
of our usual good time and how some people would say, 
"That comes of starting on Friday." Should we have to 
go home? and where would we be if Charlie had not 
been lame? Sunday morning we went quietly into the 
back pew of the little church across the green ; then we 
read and read, and after that we read some more. Char- 
lie seemed a little better at night, and Monday morning 
the landlord said he thought it would be well to drive 
him. (We think he expected parties to take our room.) 

We started towards East Jaff rey, and tried to think he 
was better, but it was of no use. There was serious 
trouble somewhere. Having the day before us, we con- 
cluded to try to get to Peterboro, an easy drive if a man 
had not carelessly given us a wrong direction, which 
took us a long way over hard hills instead of along the 
pretty river road. Poor Charlie ! he did his best ; and so 
did we, for, despite the heat, we walked much of the way 
and dragged him. We looked and felt forlorn as lost 
children, but our wits were sharpened by our 
discouragements, and we concluded he had sand or 
gravel under his shoe. We did wish we had had a black- 
smith instead of a compress at Jaffrey! 

51 



14000 MILES 

We hobbled into Peterboro in course of time, and 
asked to have Charlie taken directly to a blacksmith, who 
said we were right, but he feared the trouble was not 
discovered in season for immediate relief. We again 
settled down to await our fate. The hotel was very 
nice, but the outlook was a poor exchange for Monad- 
nock; nothing but stores, the signs on which we read 
until it seemed as if we could never forget them, as our 
eyes wandered up and down the street in search of 
something restful. All things have an end, so had this 
unsatisfactory day. We made an early call, next 
morning, on the blacksmith, who said we had better let 
Charlie rest that day, and take him down to the shop 
Wednesday morning. 

Another day! Our diary record for that day is, "We 
do not like this way of taking a carriage journey." 
Before the sun set we were driven to an extremity 
never reached before, in all our journeyings — an after- 
noon nap to kill time. After breakfast Wednesday morn- 
ing, in desperation, we took matters into our own hands, 
went to the stable, led Charlie out, and trotted him about 
the yard. He was certainly better, and as we were 
determined not to act upon any advice, we asked none, 
but paid our bill and packed our traps before we drove 
to the blacksmith's shop — a model establishment, by the 
way. The humblest one has a charm ; but this shop was 
the most luxurious one we had ever seen, and everything 
was in harmony, from the fair, genial face of the 
proprietor to the speck of a boy who earned two cents a 
horse, or twelve cents a day, for brushing flies while the 
horses were being shod. We watched anxiously while 

52 



14000 MILES 

the examination went on, and when the man looked up 
with a face worthy a second Collyer and said it was all 
right, we felt like having a jubilee. He carefully pro- 
tected the injured spot, reset the shoes, and pronounced 
the horse ready for use. We added this Boston-born 
blacksmith to our list of never-to-be-forgotten friends 
and began our journey anew. 

Was this an inspired creature we were driving? On 
he sped, and his eyes were in every direction, looking for 
some adequate excuse to jump. Surely, the limping 
Charlie was a myth ! Bennington and Antrim were left 
behind, and night found us at Hillsboro Bridge, twenty 
miles from our good blacksmith, the pleasantest remem- 
brance we had of Peterboro. 

Now we were really going somewhere, we must fix 
upon some place to meet letters from home. We took 
the map and cast our eyes up and down New Hampshire, 
but whether we fled to the borders or zigzagged through 
the interior, there was no escaping familiar routes. Being 
unanimously persistent in facing north, we bethought 
ourselves of the transformed "Flume," and immediately 
fixed upon Plymouth for a mail centre. Charlie's spirits 
were unabated the next day, and we rested him at 
Warren. It was useless to ask directions, for everybody 
was determined we must take the great highway to the 
mountains, through Concord. This we were not going to 
do, and as a first digression we drove around Mt. Kear- 
sarge in Warner and spent a night at the Winslow 
House, a very attractive hotel half way up the mountain. 
A slight repentance may have come over us as we left 
the main road and attacked the hills that lay between us 

53 



14000 MILES 

and the house on the mountain, especially as we felt 
compelled to walk, lest the hard pull prove too much for 
Charlie. Just before we reached the Mountain House we 
got into our phaeton, and all signs of repentance must 
have fled, for a lady on the piazza exclaimed, as we drove 
up, that we must be the ladies she had read of in the 
Transcript, for we looked as if we were having such a 
good time ! 

Once there, no one could have any regrets. The night 
was perfect. We asked leave to change our seats at the 
supper table, in order to add the sunset to our bill of 
fare ; and in the evening we were cordially welcomed by 
the guests, who gathered around the open fire in the 
large parlor. At ten o'clock we all went out to see the 
moon rise over the mountain. A gentleman coming up 
the mountain saw it rise several times, and we got the 
effect of these repetitions by walking down a little way. 

The morning was as lovely as the night, and the view 
simply beautiful, satisfying in all moods. There was no 
sensation of awe or isolation, but a feeling that one could 
be content forever. Kearsarge is about three thousand 
feet high. We were already fifteen hundred feet up, and 
directly after breakfast we started for the summit. No 
other parties were ready for a climb that morning, so full 
directions for the bridle path and walking sticks were 
given us, and with maps, drinking cup and revolver 
strapped about us, we were ready for any emergency. 

There is nothing more bewitching than an old bridle 
path, and we enjoyed every moment of the hour it took 
us to reach the summit. If the lovely, woodsy ascent 
and final scramble over the rocks had not fully rewarded 

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us, the view itself must have more than repaid our 
efforts. With the aid of a little book we studied out the 
various mountain peaks and traced our route along the 
country to Moosilauke. We drank our fill of the beauty, 
then leisurely descended, and reached the Winslow 
House just in season to prepare for dinner, which means 
to people traveling without their wardrobe, a dash of 
water, a touch of the whisk broom and a little rub on the 
dusty boots. 

We were just tired enough to enjoy a drive of twenty 
miles to Bristol in the afternoon — twelve miles up and 
down hills, and eight miles by a beautiful river. Our 
remembrance of Bristol is that we slept in one hotel and 
ate in another, that the moon rose two hours earlier than 
on Kearsarge, and that by some unaccountable mistake 
we arose an hour earlier than we thought, hastened to the 
office with our letters on the way to our refreshment 
hotel, where we supposed we had the dining-room to 
ourselves because we were last instead of first, wondered 
what could have happened to our watch, and did not 
discover that the watch was all right and we all wrong 
until we stopped, as we drove out of the village, to 
inquire the way to Plymouth, which would take us seven 
miles by the shore of Newfound Lake. It happened very 
well, however, for if we had been an hour later we should 
have missed the guardianship of that kindly couple who 
chanced to come along just in season to accompany us in 
passing a large company of gypsies, whom we had been 
following for some time, dreading to pass them in such 
a lonely place, lest they should think we had something 
they might like. 

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14000 MILES 

We had a "way" now, if we were going to Moosilauke, 
and Plymouth was eight miles out of our way, but we 
had to go there to get our letters. One or two we 
expected had not arrived, and we requested the postmas- 
ter to keep them until we called or sent for them. The 
good words we got from home shortened the eight miles 
extra to Rumney, which proved to be the loveliest part of 
our day's drive. 

Rumney is quiet and just the place we wanted for 
Sunday. We were the only guests at the little hotel, and 
everything was cosy as possible. We watched the 
people going to church, and after the last straggler had 
disappeared we put on our hats and followed, taking 
seats in the back pew of the smallest of the three small 
churches in that small place, where we heard a thrilling 
discourse on the atonement. 

Sunday night there was a heavy shower, and Monday 
was just the day for Moosilauke, so bright and clear. 
Before we left Rumney we learned the gypsies had 
traveled while we rested, and were again in our path. 
We drove on, looking for them at every turn, and when 
we finally overtook them no guardian couple came along, 
and we tucked our wraps and bags out of sight, looked 
at the revolver's hiding-place, and decided to brave it. 
They were scattered all along the road with their lum- 
bering wagons, and Charlie pricked up his ears and 
refused to pass them. Immediately a brawny woman 
appeared, and saying, "Is your horse afraid?" took him by 
the bit and led him by the long procession. We kept her 
talking all the way, and when she left us we thought, 
surely this is the way with half the anticipated troubles 

56 



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in life; they are only imaginary. At another point, a 
large tree had fallen across the road during the rain and 
gale of the night. An old man was hard at work upon it, 
and had just got to the last limb which obstructed our 
way as we drove up ; with a cheery word he drew it aside, 
and as neither gypsies nor gales had succeeded in detain- 
ing us, we now looked hopefully towards the summit of 
Moosilauke. 

It is twelve miles from Rumney to Warren, and five 
miles from Warren to the Breezy Point House, on the 
slope of the mountain. This hotel was burned a few 
weeks after we were there ; indeed, it has happened to so 
many hotels where we have been in our journeyings, that 
one would not wonder we never sleep when we travel, 
until we have packed "in case of fire," and when we are 
up very high, we plan our escape ; then rest as peacefully 
as if warranted not to burn. 

The drive to Breezy Point House was very like that to 
the Winslow House on Kearsarge — partly walking. We 
got there before noon, and again we were the only per- 
sons to go to the top. As it takes three hours for the 
drive to the summit, we had no time to wait for dinner, 
so had a lunch, and a buckboard and driver were ordered 
for us. We had been warned to take plenty of wraps, 
and before we went to lunch had laid them aside, leaving 
the things we did not wish to take in the office. Every- 
body was waiting to see us off as we came from the 
dining-room, and the clerk said, "Your wraps are all 
right, under the seat." We always envy everybody on 
a buckboard, and now we had one all to ourselves, a 
pair of horses equal to two mountain trips a day, 

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14000 MILES 

and a chatty little driver ready to answer all our ques- 
tions. It was a perfect summer afternoon, and we were 
delighted at every turn until we reached the "Ridge," 
when a cold blast struck us, and the soft breezes sud- 
denly changed to wind that threatened to take our hats 
off, if not our heads. Now for the wraps; and will you 
believe it? the man had put in the things we did not want, 
and those we did want were probably on the chair in the 
parlor, where we had left them. Between us we had one 
veil and one neckhandkerchief, with which we secured 
our hats and heads. There were one or two light sacques 
and a basque! Thinking of our warm wraps at the 
hotel did no good, so we dressed up in what we had, and 
with a little imagination, were comfortable. 

The narrow and comparatively level stretch, sloping 
on either side, and the sudden ascent to the highest 
point on the mountain, suggest a ride upon the ridgepole 
of a house and final leap to the top of the chimney ; once 
there, we went into the cosy house, something like the 
old one on Mt. Washington, and tied everything a little 
tighter before we dared face the gale. We then started 
out, and, actually in danger of being blown away, we 
united our forces by taking hold of hands, and ran along 
the daisy-carpeted plateau to what looked like the 
jumping-off place to the north. There is a similarity in 
mountain views, but each has at least one feature peculiar 
to itself. Mt. Washington has not even a suggestion of 
the beautiful meadows seen from Mt. Holyoke ; and from 
one point on Moosilauke there is a view of mountain 
tops unlike any we have seen ; just billows of mountains, 
nothing else, and the hazy, bluish tint was only varied 

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by the recent land slides on Mt. Liberty and Flume 
Mountain, which looked like silver cascades. Charming 
pictures meet the eye in every direction, but none more 
lovely than that along the Connecticut River near the 
Ox Bow. 

We took mental possession of the whole scene in a 
very few minutes, and, with a last look at the "billows," 
sought shelter under some rocks long enough to recover 
our breath and gather our pockets full of daisies; then 
returned to the house. A very frail-looking elderly lady 
was sitting by the fire, and we wondered how she ever 
lived through the jolting ride up the mountain, and how 
she could ever get down again. But our own transpor- 
tation was the next thing for us, and we found some 
impatient parties had started off with our driver and left 
us to the mercy of another. We were disappointed at 
first, but when we found the new driver was just as good 
and wise as the other, and that his was "the best team on 
the mountain," we were reconciled. 

As we drove along the Ridge, he said he did not often 
trot his horses there, but when the wind blew so hard he 
wanted to get over it as soon as possible. We held on to 
each other and the buckboard, and believed him when he 
told us that, a few days before, he took a young man up 
in a single team, and the horse and buckboard were 
blown off the road, and the breath of the young man 
nearly forsook him forever. We enjoyed even that part 
of the ride, and when we got down a little way the fright- 
ful wind subsided into gentle zephyrs, so warm and soft 
that not a wrap was needed. Our driver was in no haste, 
and we stopped to gather ferns and flowers by the way. 

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14000 MILES 

The knotted spruce sticks he cut and peeled for us now 
have bright ribbon bows, and adorn our parlor. We lost 
all fear as we watched the horses step down the very 
steep pitches with as much ease as Charlie takes a level 
road, and wished the ride was longer. 

After a half-hour at the Breezy Point House, we 
packed our unused wraps into the phaeton and prepared 
for our return drive to Warren, where we spent the night. 
Practical people again advised us to return to Plymouth 
if we wished to visit the Flume ; but, remembering what 
happened to Lot's wife for turning back, we proposed to 
keep straight on. The first time we stopped to make an 
inquiry, an old lady looked sorrowfully at us and said, 
"There are gypsies ahead of you;" but we borrowed no 
trouble that time, and wisely, for we did not see them. 
We drove thirty-one miles that day, and for some 
distance followed the Connecticut River and looked 
across into Vermont, where we could follow the road we 
drove along on our way to Canada two years ago. After 
leaving the river, we followed the railroad very closely. 
We were once asked if our horse is afraid of the "track/' 
He is not, even when there is an express train on it, 
under ordinary circumstances; but a wooden horse 
might be expected to twinge, when one minute you are 
over the railroad, and the next the railroad is over you, 
and again you are alongside, almost within arm's 
reach. In one of the very worst places we heard the rum- 
bling of a train, and as there was no escape from our 
close proximity, we considered a moment, and decided 
we would rather be out of the carriage; "just like 
women," I can hear many a man say. But never mind; 

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14000 MILES 

our good Charlie had expelled us unceremoniously from 
the carriage once since our last journey, and we did not 
care to risk a repetition nearly two hundred miles from 
home. He rested while we jolted up and down Moosi- 
lauke the day before, and all the morning his ears had 
been active. A broken-down carriage with an umbrella 
awning by the side of the road was an object of so great 
interest to him that we had to close the umbrella, before 
he was even willing to be led by. A boy said it 
belonged to a man who had met with an accident, and we 
thought how much he might have escaped if he had "got 
out" as we did. 

As the heavy train came thundering along almost over 
our heads, so close is the road to the high embankment, 
controlling our horse seemed uncertain; but to moral 
suasion and a strong hold on the curb he peacefully sub- 
mitted, and in a few minutes we were on our way again, 
the carriage road, railroad and river intertwining like a 
three-strand braid. Night found us at Lisbon, and a 
small boy admitted us to a very new-looking hotel, and 
told us we could stay, before the proprietor appeared, 
with a surprised look at us and our baggage, and said the 
house was not yet open. That was of little consequence 
to us, as he allowed us to remain ; and, after being in so 
many old hotels, the newness of everything, from bed- 
ding to teaspoons, was very refreshing. 

We took the next day very leisurely, read awhile in the 
morning, then drove Charlie to the blacksmith's to have 
his shoes reset before starting for Franconia via Sugar 
Hill, which commands as fine a view of the Franconia 
Mountains as Jefferson affords of the Presidential range. 

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We remembered very pleasantly the house in Franconia 
where we were cared for two years ago, when night 
overtook us on our way from Littleton, and by two 
o'clock we were quite at home there again. It is away 
from the village, and directly opposite the house is an old 
wooden bridge. Sheltered by the high wooden side of 
the bridge is an old bench, where one can sit hours, 
rocked by the jar of the bridge to the music of horses' 
feet, reveling in day dreams, inspired by the lovely view 
of the mountains, peaceful rather than grand, and the 
pretty winding stream in the foreground. We did not 
leave the charmed spot until the last sunset-cloud had 
faded, and darkness had veiled the mountain tops. We 
retired early, full of anticipation for the morning drive 
from Franconia to Campton, which has such a rare com- 
bination of grandeur and beauty, and is ever new. We 
drove up through the "Notch" several years ago, but the 
drive down would be new to us, for when we drove 
down two years ago, we might have fancied ourselves on 
a prairie, were it not for the ups and downs in the road. 
Not even an outline of the mountains was visible ; every- 
thing was lost in the hazy atmosphere which preceded 
the "yellow day." 

We took an early start, and passing the cheery hotels 
and boarding-houses of Franconia, were soon in the 
Notch, of which Harriet Martineau says, "I certainly 
think the Franconia Notch the noblest mountain pass I 
saw in the United States." However familiar it may be, 
one cannot pass Echo Lake without stopping. We did 
not hear the cannon which is said to be echoed by a 
"whole park of artillery," but a whole orchestra seemed 

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to respond to a few bugle notes. At Profile Lake we left 
the carriage again, to see how the "Old Man" looked 
when joined to earth. He hung in mid-air when we saw 
him last — enveloped in mist. We were too impatient to 
explore the new Flume to spare half an hour for the Pool, 
which was still fresh in our minds; and leaving Charlie 
to rest we started at once, with eyes opened wide to catch 
the first change in the famed spot. For some distance all 
was as we remembered it; but the scene of devastation 
was not far off, and we were soon in the midst of it. We 
had heard it said, "The Flume is spoiled," and again, "It 
is more wonderful than ever." Both are true in a 
measure; before it suggested a miracle, and now it 
looked as if there had been a "big freshet." Huge, pros- 
trate trees were lodged along the side of the gorge high 
above our heads, and the mighty torrent had forced its 
way, first one side, then the other, sweeping everything 
in its course, and leaving marks of its power. Nothing 
looked natural until we got to the narrow gorge where 
the boulder once hung, as Starr King said, "Held by a 
grasp out of which it will not slip for centuries," and now 
it has rolled far down stream like a pebble, and is lost in 
a crowd of companion boulders. The place where it hung 
is marked by the driftwood which caught around it and 
still clings to the ledges. A long way below we saw a 
board marked "Boulder" placed against an innocent- 
looking rock, which everybody was gazing at with won- 
der and admiration, but we also noticed a mischievous 
"A" above the inscription, which gave it its probable 
rank. A workman told us he thought he had identified 
the real boulder farther down amidst the debris; but it 

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matters little, for it was not the boulder which was so 
wonderful, but how it came to be suspended so mysteri- 
ously. After seeing the Flume in its present condition, 
the charm which always clings to mystery is lost, but 
one is almost overpowered with the thought of the resist- 
less force of Nature's elements. 

After climbing over the rocks till tired, we found a 
cosy place away from the many parties who were there, 
and in our little nook discovered a new boulder more 
mysteriously hung than the old one. It was a little 
larger than a man's head, and firmly held between two 
larger rocks by two small pebbles which corresponded to 
ears. A flat rock had lodged like a shelf across the larger 
rocks, half concealing the miniature boulder. The old 
boulder was no longer a mystery to us, for we could 
easily imagine how, no one knows whether years or ages 
ago, a mountain slide like the one in June rolled the old 
rock along until it lodged in the gap simply because it 
was too large to go through. But for a time this little 
one baffled us. When the mighty torrent was rushing 
along, how could Nature stop to select two little pebbles 
just the right size and put them in just the right place to 
hold the little boulder firmly? We puzzled over it, how- 
ever, until to our minds it was scientifically, therefore 
satisfactorily solved ; but we are not going to tell Nature's 
secret to the public. We call it "our boulder," for we 
doubt if any one else saw it, or if we could find it again 
among the millions of rocks all looking alike. We longed 
to follow the rocky bed to the mountain where the slide 
started, a distance of two miles, we were told, but pru- 
dence protested, and we left that till next time. We 

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14000 MILES 

stopped to take breath many times on our way back to 
the Flume House, and after a good look at the slides from 
the upper piazza, we sought rest in our phaeton once 
more. 

We forgot all about Lot's wife this time, and looked 
back until it seemed as if our necks would refuse to twist. 
The ever-changing views as you approach Campton 
exhaust all the expressions of enthusiastic admiration, 
but the old stage road through the Pemigewasset Valley 
has lost much of its charm by the railroad, which in sev- 
eral places has taken possession of the pretty old road 
along the valley, and sent the stage road up on to a sand 
bank, and at the time we were there the roads were in a 
shocking condition. The many washouts on the stage 
and rail roads had been made barely passable, and there 
was a look of devastation at every turn. We spent the 
night at Sanborn's, always alive with young people, and 
were off in the morning with a pleasant word from some 
who remembered our staying there over night two years 
ago. 

From Campton to Plymouth is an interesting drive. 
We had a nice luncheon by the wayside, as we often do, 
but, instead of washing our dishes in a brook or at a 
spring as usual, we thought we would make further 
acquaintance with the woman who supplied us with milk. 
We went again to the house and asked her to fill our pail 
with water that we might wash our dishes ; she invited us 
into the kitchen, and insisted on washing them for us — 
it was dish-washing time — which was just what we 
hoped she would do to give us a chance to talk with her. 
She told us about the freshets as she leisurely washed 

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the tin pail, cups and spoons, and laid them on the stove 
to dry. Our mothers had not taught us to dry silver in 
that way, and we were a little anxious for the fate of our 
only two spoons, and hastened our departure, with many 
thanks for her kindness. 

As soon as we reached Plymouth we went to the post 
office, eager for our letters. The deaf old gentleman was 
at his post, and we asked for letters and papers. He 
glanced up and down something, we do not know what, 
then indifferently said, "There are none." Usually there 
is nothing more to be said ; but not so in our case, for we 
were too sure there ought to be letters, if there were not, 
to submit to such a disappointment without protest. 
Perhaps he had not understood the names. We spoke 
a little louder, and asked if he would please look once 
more. He looked from top to bottom of something again, 
and with no apology or the least change of countenance, 
handed out a letter. This encouraged us, and we resolved 
not to leave until we got at least one more. "Now," we 
said very pleasantly, "haven't you another hidden away 
up there, somewhere?" He looked over a list of names 
and shook his head. We told him our mails were of great 
importance to us as we were traveling and could not hear 
from home often, and we were sure our friends had not 
forgotten us, and there must be one more somewhere. 
His patience held out, for the reason, perhaps, that ours 
did, and he looked up and down that mysterious place 
once more and the letter was forthcoming! The one or 
two witnesses to our conversation showed manifest 
amusement, but there was no apparent chagrin on the 

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part of the obliging postmaster. We thought of the 
scripture text about "importunity," and went to the car- 
riage to read our letters which had barely escaped the 
dead-letter office. We were amused when we read that a 
package had been mailed with one of the letters, and 
went to the postmaster with this information. He 
declared there was no package, and knowing that pack- 
ages are frequently delayed a mail, we did not insist on 
having one, but requested it forwarded to Weirs. 

The annual question, "Shall we go to Weirs?" had 
been decided several days before; and we now set forth 
on the zigzag drive which we cannot make twice alike, 
and which always gives us the feeling of being on the 
road to nowhere. The day was bright, and we did not 
need ginger cookies to keep us warm, as we did the last 
time we took this drive, but there was no less discussion 
as to whether we ought to go, and whether the last turn 
was wrong or right. We always feel as if we had got 
home and our journey was ended, when we get to Weirs. 
As usual, many familiar faces greeted us, and it was par- 
ticularly pleasant, for until we got there we had not seen 
a face we knew since the day after we left home. Even 
our minister was there to preach to us, as if we were 
stray sheep and had been sent for. Lake Winnipiseogee 
was never more beautiful, but looked upon with sadness 
because of the bright young man who had given his life 
to it, and whose body it refused to give up. Although we 
always feel our journey at an end, there is really one 
hundred miles of delightful driving left us, and Monday 
morning, after the adjournment of the grove meeting, we 

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ordered our horse, and while waiting walked to the 
station to have a few last words with our friends who 
were going by rail and boat. 

Directly we leave Weirs we go up a long hill, and are 
rewarded by a very fine view of the lake and surrounding 
mountains. We drove into a pasture to gain the highest 
point, saw all there was to be seen, then down the famil- 
iar road to Lake Village and Laconia. At a point where 
the road divided, two bright girls were reclining in the 
shade, and we asked them the way to Tilton; one 
answered, "The right, I think," and in the same breath 
said, "We don't know. Are you from Smith's? We are 

staying at 's, but we thought you might be staying at 

Smith's, and we want to know if that is any nicer than 
our place." Their bright faces interested us, and we 
encouraged their acquaintance by telling them we were 
not staying anywhere, but traveling through the country. 
This was sufficient to fully arouse their curiosity, and a 
flood of questions and exclamations were showered upon 
us. "Just you two? Oh, how nice! That's just what I 
like about you New England ladies; now, we could not 
do that in Washington. Do you drive more than ten 
miles a day? Is it expensive? Where do you stay 
nights? Do you sketch? Why don't you give an illus- 
trated account of your journey for some magazine? Oh 1 
how I wish I could sketch you just as you are, so I could 
show you to our friends when we go back to Washing- 
ton !" and so on until we bade them good morning. 

We crossed a very long bridge, and afterwards learned 
that it was to be closed the next day and taken down, 
being unsafe. We found a man at a little village store 

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14000 MILES 

who would give Charlie his dinner. We declined going 
into the house, and took our books under the trees just 
across the way. A shower came up, and as we ran for 
shelter, we saw our carriage unprotected ; no man was to 
be seen, so we drew it into an open shed, and there stayed 
until the sun shone again. 

We went through Franklin and Boscawen to Fisher- 
ville, where we saw a pleasant-looking hotel. We had 
driven twenty-six miles, and thought best to stop there. 
We were hungry and our supper was fit for a king. We 
went to bed in Fisherville, but got up in Contoocook, we 
were told. What's in a name? A five-miles' drive after 
breakfast brought us to Concord, where we passed several 
hours very delightfully with friends. In the afternoon, 
despite remonstrances and threatening showers, we 
started for Goffstown over Dunbarton hills. We remem- 
bered that drive very well ; but the peculiar cloud phases 
made all new, and disclosed the Green Mountains in the 
sunlight beyond the clouds like a vision of the heavenly 
city. We left the carriage once, ran to the top of a knoll 
and mounted a stone wall. The view was enchanting, 
but in the midst of our rapture great drops of rain began 
to fall, and we were back in our carriage, the boot up and 
waterproofs unstrapped just in time for a brisk shower. 
As we passed an aged native, radiant in brass but- 
tons, we asked him some questions about the mountains, 
but he knew nothing of them, which reminded us of the 
reply a woman made whom a friend asked if those distant 
peaks were the White Mountains. "I don't know; I 
haven't seen nothin' of 'em since I've been here." 

Shower followed shower, and we decided to spend the 

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night in Dunbarton. A few houses, a church, a little com- 
mon, and a hotel labeled "Printing Office/ 9 seemed to 
comprise the town, but there must be something more 
somewhere, judging from The Snowflake given us, which 
was the brightest local paper we ever saw, and our land- 
lord was editor. We went through his printing establish- 
ment with much interest. We saw no hotel register, but 
as we were leaving, the landlady came with a slip of 
paper and a pencil, and asked us to write our names. 
After our return home we received copies of The Snow- 
flake containing an item, every statement of which was 
actually correct, and yet we were entirely unconscious of 
having been "interviewed" as to our travels. 

It is said thirty-seven towns can be seen from Dun- 
barton; and our own Wachusett, Ascutney in Vermont 
and Moosilauke in New Hampshire were easily 
distinguished. We fortified ourselves with the fresh air 
and pleasant memories of the heights ; then asked direc- 
tions for Shirley Hill and the "Devil's Pulpit," in Bed- 
ford, near Goffstown, having replenished our lunch 
basket, and Charlie's also, for there was no provision for 
Christian travelers near that sanctuary. 

Shirley Hill commands a very pretty view of Manches- 
ter; and of the "Pulpit" some one has said, "That of all 
wild, weird spots consecrated to his majesty, perhaps 
none offer bolder outlines for the pencil of a Dore than 
this rocky chasm, the 'Devil's Pulpit'. No famous local- 
ity among the White Mountains offers a sight so original, 
grand and impressive as this rocky shrine." And then the 
writer describes in detail the stone pulpit, the devil's 
chamber, the rickety stairs, the bottomless wells, the 

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huge wash-basin and a punch bowl, lined with soft green 
moss, and the separate apartments with rocky, grotesque 
walls and carpets of twisting and writhing roots of trees. 
An enterprising farmer has cut a rough road to this won- 
derful spot, a half-mile from the highway, and by paying 
twenty-five cents toll we were admitted "beyond the 
gates" and saw no living person until our return. The 
same enterprise that built the road had left its mark at 
the "Pulpit." Cribs for horses were placed between trees, 
and a large crib in the shape of a rough house, with tables 
and benches, served as a dining-room for visitors. Every 
stick and stone was labeled with as much care and preci- 
sion as the bottles in a drug store, and there was no 
doubt which was the "Devil's Pulpit" and which the 
"Lovers' Retreat." It was a fearfully hot place, but that 
did not surprise us, for we naturally expect heat and 
discomfort in the precincts of his majesty. We unhar- 
nessed Charlie, and after exploring the gorge thoroughly 
and emptying our lunch basket, we sat in the carriage 
and read until we were so nearly dissolved by the heat 
that we feared losing our identity, and made preparations 
to leave. It was an assurance that we had returned to 
this world when the gate keeper directed us to Milford 
and said we would go by the house where Horace Gree- 
ley was born. He pointed out the house and we thought 
we saw it ; but as we did not agree afterward, we simply 
say we have passed the birthplace of Horace Greeley. 

It was nearly dark when we got to Milford, and we 
rather dreaded the night at that old hotel, where we had 
been twice before. The exterior was as unattractive as 
ever, but we were happily surprised to find wonderful 

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transformation going on inside, and we recognized in 
the new proprietor one of the little boys we used to play 
with in our early school days. We were very hospitably 
received and entertained, and the tempting viands, so 
well served in the new, cheery dining-room, were worthy 
of any first-class hotel. Our horse was well groomed, 
carriage shining like new, and the only return permitted 
— hearty thanks. 

"There is no place like home," and yet it is with a little 
regret that we start on our last day's drive. A never- 
ending carriage journey might become wearisome, but 
we have never had one long enough to satisfy us yet. As 
we drove through Brookline and crossed the invisible 
State line to Townsend, then to Fitchburg and Leomin- 
ster, we summed up all the good things of our three 
week's wanderings and concluded nothing was lacking. 
Perfect health, fine weather and three hundred and fifty 
miles' driving among the hills! What more could we 
ask? Oh! we forgot Charlie's days of affliction! But 
experiences add to the interest when all is over. 



72 



CHAPTER V. 

CONNECTICUT, WITH SIDE TRIP TO NEW JERSEY. 

Early in the afternoon of one of the hottest days in 
August, Charlie and our cosy phaeton stood at the door 
waiting for us, and we had with us our bags, wraps, 
umbrellas, books, the lunch basket, and never-used 
weapon. "A place for everything and everything in its 
place," is verified in that phaeton, and in little time all 
were stowed away, and we were off on our thirteenth 
annual drive. 

We had expected that our drive must be omitted this 
year, and so suddenly did we decide to go, that, to save 
trying to plan, we turned towards Barre, where we spent 
the first night of our first journey, thirteen years ago. It 
proved a pleasant beginning, for when we got up among 
the hills of Princeton the air was cool and refreshing. 
We drove very leisurely, and it was quite dark when we 
found our way to the hotel. 

After supper we began our geography lesson for the 
morrow. We had two questions to answer — "Shall we 
drive on towards the western part of the state, and visit 
some of the lovely spots among the Berkshire Hills, 
which we did not see when we drove there some sum- 
mers ago?" or, "Shall we take a new direction, and turn 
southward?" After much deliberation, for Berkshire is 
like a magnet, we decided to gratify the friends who are 
always asking why we have never driven into Connecti- 
cut. 

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14000 MILES 

Our lesson having been disposed of, we slept soundly 
and awoke reconciled to a wandering in Connecticut, 
only we wished we knew the places of interest or had 
some reason for going to one place rather than another. 
The wish was soon gratified by a friend we met before 
leaving Barre, who spoke very enthusiatically of Tol- 
land, as she recalled a visit there many years ago. This 
was enough for us ; we had a connecting link with some- 
body, and took direction accordingly. 

We rested Charlie at Ware, after our morning drive. 
We remembered the pleasant driving in this vicinity, 
but towards Palmer it was new to us. The thunder was 
muttering all the afternoon, and it was our good fortune 
to find ourselves in a comfortable hotel at Palmer an 
hour earlier than we usually stop, for we had only 
reached our room when the rain fell in sheets, and the 
lightning flashed at random. 

Palmer is so associated with the Boston and Albany 
railroad, that it seemed as if only the spirit of opposition 
could prompt us to take a short cut to Hartford without 
paying our respects to Springfield ; but we declare inde- 
pendence of railroads when we have our phaeton, and as 
we "did" Springfield so thoroughly a few years ago, we 
did not diverge, but aimed straight for Connecticut. 

The morning was bright and fresh after the shower, 
and we left Palmer early, with a little book sounding the 
praises of Connecticut, handed us by the clerk, which 
proved quite useful. We drove on through Monson, but 
before we got to Stafford Springs, where we intended to 
stop, we came to a place too tempting to be passed by 
— such a pretty rocky hillside, with inviting nooks under 

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the trees, and a barn just opposite, where very likely 
Charlie could be cared for. 

"Oh, yes !" a woman said, when we asked her. "Leave 

your horse tied there, and will take care of him when 

he comes to dinner." The rocky hillside was also granted 
us, and we took our wraps and lunch basket and prepared 
for a two-hours' rest. 

The time passed only too quickly, and on we drove, 
but saw no place in Stafford Springs that made us regret 
our pretty camp ; the time for repentance had not come. 
"Seven miles to Tolland," we were told, and if we? 
remember aright it was up hill all the way. Why have 
we always heard people say "down" to Connecticut? 
Seriously, that is one reason we never drove there before. 
"Up" to New Hampshire and Vermont sounds so much 
cooler and nicer. We wondered then, and the farther we 
drove the more we wondered, until one day we spoke of 
it, and a man said — "Why, did you come to Connecticut 
expecting to find anything but hills?" 

We like hills, and were very glad to find it was "up" to 
Tolland. When we entered its one broad street, on a 
sort of plateau, and saw all Tolland at a glance, we ex- 
claimed, "Just the place we want for Sunday!" And 
when we were cosily fixed in a corner parlor bedroom on 
the first floor of a hotel, something like the old "Camper- 
down" on Lake Memphremagog, we were confirmed in 
our first impression, and felt perfectly happy. Comfort 
and an abundance of good things was the aim of the 
kindly proprietor. We sat at the supper table, happy in 
thinking all was well, perhaps, unconsciously rejoicing; 
for it was just at this stage of our journey last year that 

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14000 MILES 

Charlie became so lame, not from rheumatism, strained 
cords, etc., as they said, but from sand under his shoe. 
That was our first unpleasant experience, and a second 
was at hand; for as we came from the dining-room, a 
man was waiting to tell us our horse was very sick. We 
hurried to the stable yard, where he lay in great distress, 
refusing to stand up. What could have happened to him ? 
Surely, that generous farmer at whose place we 
"camped" must have over-fed him when he was warm. 
Now we repented in good earnest, but little good that 
did Charlie. The proprietor was as thoughtful of our 
horse as of us, and sent a man to walk him about. We 
followed on and pitied him as he was kept moving, 
despite every effort he made to drop upon the green 
grass. After a time he seemed a little better, and the 
man took him back to the stable. We could not feel easy 
and went to see him again, and finally took him ourselves 
and led him up and down Tolland street for an hour or 
more (we could not have done that in Springfield), 
answering many inquiries from the people we met. By- 
and-by he began to steal nibbles at the grass and to give 
evidence of feeling better, and when we took him back to 
his stall we were assured he would be all right in the 
morning. 

We arose early, for Sunday, for we could not wait to 
know if he was well again. His call as we entered the 
stable told us our second disagreeable experience was at 
an end. Now we began the day y read, breakfasted, went 
to the little church around the corner, wrote letters, 
walked and enjoyed every hour in that restful place, 
where it is said no one locks the doors, for thieves do not 

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break through nor steal there. Perhaps it is because of 
the peculiarly moral atmosphere that the county jail is 
located there. At any rate, even the man who was 
hostler during the day and convict at night won our 
kindly remembrance. 

Monday morning, bright and early, we started for 
Hartford. Of course there are many things of interest 
between Tolland and Hartford, but they belong to every 
traveler, and we are only telling our own experience. 
We asked at a hotel in Hartford if we could have our 
horse cared for there, and were told we could by taking 
him around to the stable ; so we "took him round." We 
then took a walk, instead of stopping at the hotel as we 
had intended. After our walk we thought we would call 
on a friend visiting in the city, but it occurred to us that 
we were hardly presentable, for our dusters were not 
fresh, and we could not take them off, for then the 
revolver would show, and we had no place to leave them 
unless we "took them round" to the stable, too. This 
matter settled, we wandered about again, and followed 
some people into what we thought might be a church 
service, to find ourselves at an art exhibition. Next we 
spied a park, and strolling through we came to the new 
capitol building, which we examined from top to bottom. 

Somebody we had met somewhere had suggested our 
spending a night at New Britain, which was just enough 
off the main route to New Haven to send us on a wrong 
turn now and then. Our attention was held that after- 
noon in turn by pretty scenery, chickens, wrong roads 
and crows. The last-mentioned were having a regular 
"drill." We saw in the distance a hill, black — as we 

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14000 MILES 

thought — with burnt stumps ; but soon a section of these 
stumps was lifted into mid-air, and it was not until this 
had been repeated several times that we could realize 
that the entire hill was alive with crows. At regular inter- 
vals, and in the most systematic order, section after sec- 
tion sailed aloft as one bird, each section taking the same 
course — first towards the north, then with a graceful 
turn stretching in line towards the south, at a certain 
point wheeling about to the north again, and gradually 
mounting higher and higher until lost to sight in the 
distance. 

There was no such systematic order observed in the 
"best" room, which was given us at a hotel in New 
Britain, and after such a lesson from the crows we 
could not forbear making a few changes, so that the 
pretty, old-fashioned desk should not interfere with the 
wardrobe door, and the bureau and wash-stand should 
not quarrel for a place only large enough for one of them, 
when vacant places were pleading for an occupant. Our 
supper was good, and our room had quite a "best" look 
after its re-arrangement. It rained all night, and we 
waited awhile in the morning thinking it would clear 
away "before eleven," but there was seemingly no end to 
the clearing-up showers, and we had to brave it. We do 
not mind rain, usually, but we were not accustomed to 
the red mud, and it did not seem so clean as our home 
mud. We had driven thirty miles the day before, and 
twenty-eight more were between us and New Haven. 
We were at last on our way with "sides on and boot up," 
and a constantly increasing quantity of red mud attach- 
ing itself to the phaeton. We stopped at Meriden two 

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14000 MILES 

hours, and were very courteously received at a hotel there, 
The afternoon was bright and sunny, and the drive of 
eighteen miles very delightful. We entered New Haven 
by State street just at dusk with our terra-cotta equipage, 
and drove direct to the post office, so sure of letters that, 
when we found there were none, we hardly knew what to 
do next. While waiting for letters, and for Charlie to 
rest, we decided to take a peep at New York. The best 
of care was promised for Charlie at a hotel, our letters 
were to be brought to the house, and bags and wraps 
were locked up safely. 

About nine o'clock we went to the boat, which was to 
leave at midnight. The evening passed pleasantly, and 
we did not fully realize the undesirable location of the 
best stateroom we could get until we were under way, 
when the fog horn sounded directly before our window, 
and the heat from the boiler, which we could almost 
touch, increased too much for comfort the temperature 
of an August night. Sleep was impossible, and we 
amused ourselves by counting between the fog alarms 
and opening the window to let in fresh instalments of 
"boiling air." The intervals lengthened, and finally, 
when we had counted four hundred and heard no fog 
horn, we looked out to find it was bright starlight, and 
returned to our berths for a brief nap. 

We landed at Pier 25, East River, just as the electric 
lights on Brooklyn Bridge were disappearing like stars 
in the sunlight. At seven we breakfasted on board the 
boat, and as we proposed spending the day with a friend 
thirty miles out in New Jersey, our next move was to 
find our way to Liberty street, North River. We did not 

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14000 MILES 

need a carriage, and might never get there if we 
attempted to go by cars, so we concluded a morning walk 
would do us good. We crossed the ferry to Jersey City, 
and were entertained by a company of men "drilling/' 
and a company of young men and maidens dressed up in 
their best for an excursion somewhere, until the nine 
o'clock train was announced. An hour or more took us 
to Plainfield, where the day was given up to visiting in 
good earnest. We enjoyed it all so much that we were 
easily persuaded to spend the night. 

At ten o'clock next morning we took the train for New 
York, where we made a call, did a little shopping, walked 
over Brooklyn Bridge, and spent the night with friends 
in the city. It rained the next day, and as there was 
nothing to do we did nothing, and enjoyed it all the 
morning. After luncheon we found our way to the boat 
again, and at three o'clock were off for New Haven. It 
was a pleasant sail, in spite of the showers, and we sat 
on deck all the way, enjoying everything, and wondering 
how many letters we should have, and if Charlie was all 
right. We were due at New Haven at eight o'clock in 
the evening, and before nine we were at the hotel and 
had fled to our room, wondering what it meant by our 
receiving no letters. 

We requested everything to be in readiness for us 
directly after breakfast next morning — Charlie shod, the 
terra-cotta covering removed from our phaeton, axles 
oiled, etc. We lost no time on our way to the post office. 
As we gave our names slowly and distinctly at the 
delivery box, that no mistake might be made, out came 
the letters — one, two, three, four — one remailed from 

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Hartford. As the young man handed out the last, he 
said, "Please have your mail directed to street and num- 
ber after this." "We have no street and number, sir, we 
are tramps," we replied. "Why was not our mail put 
into the hotel box?" No satisfactory explanation was 
offered, but when we got to the carriage and looked over 
our letters, none was needed. Evidently they had not 
stayed in the office long enough to get into anybody's 
box. They had traveled from pillar to post, had been 
opened and reopened, and scribbled over and over in an 
effort to find an owner for them. 

All was well when our letters were written, so we had 
only to decide on the pleasantest route homeward. A 
friend in New York wished us to visit Old Lyme, which 
was made so interesting in Harper's a year or two ago. 
This was directly in our course if we followed the advice 
to go to New London before turning north. Charlie was 
at his best, and we drove thirty miles through towns and 
villages along the coast, stopping two hours at Guilford, 
and spending the night at Westbrook, a "sort of Rum- 
ney," our diary record says, only on the coast instead of 
up among the mountains. The recollection uppermost 
in our mind is, that everybody's blinds were closed, 
which gave a gloomy look to every town we passed 
through that day. 

We felt a little constrained in Connecticut on Sundays, 
and thought we should stay in Westbrook quietly until 
Monday morning; but after breakfast, which we shared 
with the apparently very happy family, the father asked 
if he should "hitch up" for us. We said not then, but as 
it was so pleasant perhaps we might drive on a few miles 

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14000 MILES 

in the afternoon. He told us we should have to "ferry" 
the Connecticut at Saybrook, but he "guessed our horse 
wouldn't mind." Our old black Charlie was never hap- 
pier than when crossing the Connecticut without any 
effort on his part ; but this Charlie has entirely different 
ideas, and if we had known we could not cross by bridge 
as we did at Hartford we should have deferred Old Lyme 
until another time. But it was too late now, and we 
would not mar our lovely afternoon drive by anticipating 
trouble. Rivers have to be crossed ; and we philosophic- 
ally concluded "Do not cross a bridge until you get to it" 
is equally applicable to a ferry. Five miles lay between 
us and the Connecticut River, and we gave ourselves up 
to quiet enjoyment as if ferries were unknown, until we 
reached Saybrook, when we had to inquire the way. A 
few twists and turns brought us to the steep pitch which 
led to the river, and at first sight of the old scow, with 
big flapping sail, Charlie's ears told us what he thought 
about it. With some coaxing he went down the pitch, 
but at the foot were fishing nets hung up on a frame, and 
he persistently refused to go farther. We were yet a 
little distance from the shore, and the scow was still 
farther away at the end of a sort of pier built out into the 
river. We got out and tried to comfort Charlie, who was 
already much frightened; and yet this was nothing to 
what was before him. What should we do? If it had not 
been Sunday, there might have been other horses to 
cross, and he will follow where he will not go alone. But 
it was Sunday, and no one was in sight but the man and 
boy on the scow, and a man sufficiently interested in us 
to hang over a rail on the embankment above watching 

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us very closely. Perhaps he thought it was wicked to 
help people on Sunday. At any rate, he did not offer, 
and we did not ask, assistance. One of us took Charlie 
by the bit, and trusted he would amuse himself dancing, 
while the other ran ahead to the scow to see what could 
be done. The small boy and barefooted old man did not 
look very encouraging, but we still had faith there was a 
way to cross rivers that must be crossed. We told our 
dilemma, and said, "What will you do with him?" 

"Oh! he'll come along; we never have any trouble." 

"No," we said, "he won't come along, and we shall be 
upset in the river if we attempt driving him on this pier." 

We walked back towards the carriage, the old man 
saying, "I get all sorts of horses across, and can this one 
if he don't pull back. If he does, of course I can't do any- 
thing with him." 

This was small comfort, for we knew that that was just 
what he would do. We asked about unharnessing him, 
but the old man objected. We knew Charlie too well, 
however, and did not care to see our phaeton and con- 
tents rolling over into the river. Our courage waning a 
little at this point, we asked how far we should have to 
go to find a bridge. "Oh, clear to Hartford ! sixty miles !" 
When Charlie was unharnessed, the old man took him by 
the bit, and said to one of us, "Now you take the whip, 
and if he pulls back, strike him. Boy, you take the car- 
riage." This was simply impossible without help. It 
was a grand chance for our one spectator, but without 
doubt he believed in woman's right to push if not to vote, 
so we pushed, and a good push it had to be, too. We did 
not envy those bare feet so near Charlie's uncertain steps, 

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14000 MILES 

but the constant tingling of the whip so diverted him, 
and warned him of a heavier stroke if he diverged from 
his straight and narrow way, that he kept his head 
turned that side, and before he knew it he was on the 
scow and had never seen the flapping sail. His head was 
then tied with a rope. The phaeton followed with more 
difficulty, but less anxiety. When that was secured, our 
voyage began, and it seemed never-ending; for in spite 
of all the caressing and comforting assurances, Charlie 
placed his fore legs close together and trembled just like 
a leaf as the little sailboats flitted before his eyes. Then 
came the "chug" into the sand as we landed. A kindly 
old man left his horse to help us harness, and five 
minutes after we were off, Charlie was foamy white, and 
looked as if he had swum the Atlantic. 

We did not find the hotel at Old Lyme attractive, and 
had plenty of time to drive farther; but, after all the 
trouble we had taken to get to the place, we did not leave 
it without taking a look at the quaint old town, its rocky 
pastures and cosy nooks so lovely in illustrated maga- 
zines. 

"Yes," we said, "this is pretty; but, after all, where is 
the spot to be found that cannot be made interesting by 
the ready pen and sketching pencil of one who has eyes 
to see all there is to see in this lovely world?" 

Nothing could be more delightful than the crooked ten 
miles from Old Lyme to Niantic. If you look at the map, 
and see all the little bays that make the coast so rugged, 
you can imagine how we twisted about to follow what 
is called the shore road. We say "called," for most of the 
shore and river roads we have ever driven over from 

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Connecticut to Canada are out of sight of water. A few 
glorious exceptions come to mind, like the four miles on 
the border of Willoughby Lake in Vermont, the Broad 
Brook drive near Brattleboro and seven miles by New- 
found Lake in New Hampshire. It was up and down, 
and now when "up" we could catch a glimpse of the 
• Sound dotted over with white sails, and when "down" we 
found such flower-fields as would rival the boldest 
attempts at fancy gardening — the cardinal flower, 
golden-rod, white everlasting and blue daisies in richest 
profusion. We met the family wagons jogging along 
home from church, and the young men and maidens were 
taking the "short cut" along the well-worn footpath over 
the hills, with their books in hand, that lovely Sunday 
afternoon ; but where the church or homes could be we 
wondered, for we saw neither. We knew nothing of 
Niantic, and were surprised to find it quite a little seaside 
resort. It was early evening, and it was very pleasant to 
have brilliantly lighted hotels in place of the dark woody 
hollows we had been through the last half-hour. We 
drove to the end of the street, passing all the hotels, and 
then returned to the first one we saw, as the most desira- 
ble for us. It was located close by the water, and our 
window overlooked the Sound. Uniformed men were all 
about, and we soon learned that it was the foreshadowing 
of muster. We slept well with the salt breezes blowing 
upon us, and after breakfast we followed the rest of the 
people to the garden which separated the house from the 
railroad station, and for a half-hour sat on a fence, sur- 
rounded by tall sunflowers, to see the infantry and 
cavalry as they emerged from the cars. "Quite 

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aesthetic," one of the boys in blue remarked. We do not 
go to muster, but as muster came to us we made the most 
of it, and watched with interest the mounted men of 
authority as they gave their orders to the men, who 
looked as if they would like to change places with them 
and prance about, instead of doing the drudgery. 

The morning hours were too precious for driving to be 
spent among sunflowers and soldiers, and we got down 
from the fence and went in search of the landlord. He 
gave us directions for getting to New London when 
everything was ready, and we found that what we 
thought was the end of the street was the beginning of 
our way, and a queer way it was, too. No wonder we 
were asked if our horse was afraid of the cars, for appar- 
ently the railroad was the only highway, as the water 
came up quite close on either side. "Surely this must be 
wrong," we said ; "there is no road here." Although we 
had been told to follow the railroad, we did not propose 
to drive into the ocean, unless it was the thing to do. We 
turned off to the left but were sent back by a woman who 
looked as if we knew little if we did not know that was 
the only way to New London. Not satisfied, we stopped 
a man. "Yes, that is the way," he said. "But it looks as 
if we should drive right into the ocean." "I know it," he 
replied, "and it will look more so as you go on, and if the 
tide was in you would." Luckily for us the tide was not 
in, for even then the space was so small between the 
water and the railroad that Charlie needed as much diver- 
sion with the whip as in ferrying the Connecticut. Next 
came a little bridge, and as we paid the toll, which was 
larger than the bridge, we asked if it was for keeping the 

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road we had just come over in repair. "Yes, it is washed 
twice a day." We asked if the ocean got the fees, and 
drove on. 

It was only six miles to New London, and it was too 
early to stop there for dinner, and it would be too late to 
wait until we got to Norwich ; so, after driving about the 
principal streets for a half-hour, we filled our lunch 
basket and got some oats, trusting to find a place to 
"camp." Just at the right time to halt we came to a 
village church on a little hill, all by itself, and we took 
possession of the "grounds," put Charlie into one of the 
sheds, taking refuge ourselves in the shadow of a stone 
wall. We hung our shawls over the wall, for the wind 
blew cool through the chinks, spread the blanket on the 
ground, and gave ourselves up to comfort and books. 
The lofty ceiling of our temporary parlor was tinted blue, 
and the spacious walls were adorned with lovely pictures, 
for our little hill was higher than we realized. We had 
taken the river road, and we knew that by rail from New 
London to Norwich we followed the river very closely; 
but this was, like most "river" roads, over the hills. 

We reluctantly left our luxurious quarters and 
journeyed on to Norwich. We had found on our map a 
town beyond Norwich which we thought would serve us 
for the night ; but when we inquired about hotels there, 
people looked as if they had never heard of the place, 
and in fact there was none by that name. We were 
advised to go to Jewett City. After a little experience we 
learned that in many cases towns on the map are but 
names, and if we wanted to find the places where all 
business interests centred, we must look for a "city" or 

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"ville" in small italics touching the railroad. Niantic was 
an "italic" resort. This lesson learned, we had no diffi- 
culty. The hotel at Jewett City looked as if it would 
blow over, and if it had we think our room would have 
landed on the railroad ; but the breezes were gentle, and 
we had a safe and restful night after our thirty-miles' 
drive. 

We were directed next morning via one "ville" to 
another "ville," and the delightful recollections of our 
"sky" parlor tempted us to try camping again, and we got 
another bag of oats. We had not driven far before we 
came to the largest lily pond we ever saw, and a railroad 
ran right through it. It looked as if we could step down 
the gravel bank and get all the lilies we wanted. We 
tied Charlie by the roadside, and ran to the railroad bank 
to find they were just provokingly beyond our reach. A 
company of men were working on the road, and one said, 
"I would send one of my men to get you some ; but a train 
is due in ten minutes, and these rails must be laid." His 
kindly words softened our disappointment, and we went 
back to the carriage. It seemed as if there was no end to 
the pond, and surely there was an endless supply of lilies, 
but we knew that the stray ones so close to the shore 
were only waiting to entice somebody over shoes, and 
perhaps more, in water, and we passed them by. We 
camped on a stone wall under a tree, a spot so perfectly 
adapted to our convenience that it developed the hereto- 
fore latent talent of our "special artist," and a dainty 
little picture is ever reminding us of our pleasant stay 
there. We spent the night at Putnam, and as a matter of 
course, we went for oats just before leaving, as if we had 

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always traveled that way, instead of its being an entirely 
new feature. A pine grove invited us this time, with a 
house near by where we bought milk, and we stopped for 
a half-hour again in the afternoon, by a bewitching little 
brook, and made ourselves comfortable with our books 
among the rocks and ferns, for it was a very hot day. 
Our drive that day took us through Webster and Oxford 
and brought us to Millbury for the night. Our remem- 
brance of that night is not so pleasant as we could wish, 
and we are going again some time to get a better impres- 
sion. 

The next day was one of the hottest of the season, and 
we availed ourselves of the early morning to drive to 
North Grafton, where we had a chatty visit with a friend. 
We dreaded to begin our last twenty-five miles, for it 
would be so hard for Charlie in the heat. We delayed as 
long as we dared, then braved it. We drove very leisure- 
ly to Worcester, and made one or two calls, then took the 
old road over the hill as we left the city towards home. 
We seemed to be above the heat and dust, and had one of 
the most charming drives of our whole journey. We 
are so familiar with the road that we did not mind pro- 
longing our drive into the evening, with a full moon to 
illumine our way. The seven miles from Sterling to 
Leominster were so pleasant we made them last as long 
as possible. The moon was unclouded and it seemed 
almost as light as day; the air was soft and we did not 
need the lightest wrap. We enjoyed just that perfect 
comfort one dreads to have disturbed. But all things 
have an end, it is said, and our pleasant journey ended 
about nine o'clock that evening, but it was close on to the 

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"wee sma' hours" before the "doings" in our absence 
were all talked over with the friends who welcomed us 
home. 

This story, written out in a week of Fridays, on the 
way to Symphony Rehearsals, will assure you that a 
phaeton trip loses none of its charms for us by many 
repetitions. 



90 



CHAPTER VI. 

DIXV1LLE NOTCH AND OLD ORCHARD. 

A Colorado friend recently sent us a paper with an 
interesting account of "Two Women in a Buggy — How 
two Denver ladies drove five hundred miles through the 
Rockies." Now, "Two Ladies in a Phaeton," and "How 
they drove six hundred miles through, beyond and around 
the White Mountains," would be laid aside as hardly 
worth reading, compared with the adventures of two 
women driving through the "Rockies;" but, for actual 
experience, we think almost everybody would prefer ours. 
We all like ease, comfort and smooth ways, and yet disas- 
ters and discomfort have a wonderful charm somehow in 
print. Our two weeks' drive in Connecticut last year 
seemed small to us, but we have been asked many times 
if it was not the best journey we ever had, and as many 
times we have discovered that the opinion was based on 
the hard time we had crossing the Connecticut by ferry, 
the one unpleasant incident of the whole trip. Now if 
we could tell you of hair-breadth escapes passing "sixers 
and eighters" on the edge of precipices, and about sleep- 
ing in a garret reached by a ladder, shared by a boy in a 
cot at that; or better yet, how one day, when we were 
driving along on level ground chatting pleasantly, we 
suddenly found ourselves in a "prayerful attitude" and 
the horse disappearing with the forward wheels, the 
humiliating result being that the buggy had to be taken 
to pieces, and packed into a Norwegian's wagon and we 

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and it transported to the next town for repairs — if we 
could tell you such things like the Denver ladies, we 
should be sure you would not doubt our last was our best 
journey. How we are to convince you of that fact, for 
fact it is, when we did not even cross a ferry, is a puzzle. 

Before we really begin our story we will tell you one or 
two notable differences between the Denver tourists and 
ourselves. They took their "best" bonnets and gowns, 
and such "bibbity bobbities" as "no woman, even were 
she going to an uninhabited desert, would think she could 
do without;" bedding and household utensils, too, so of 
course had baggage strapped on the back of the buggy, 
and they had a pail underneath, filled, "woman fashion, 
with everything, which suffered in the overturns," but, 
will you believe it, they had no revolver ! Were they to 
meet us, they would never suspect we were fellow travel- 
ers, unless the slight "hump" under the blanket or duster 
should give them an inkling that we had more "things" 
than were essential for a morning's drive. Helpless and 
innocent as we look we could warrant "sure cure" to a 
horse whatever ill might befall him, and we could "show 
fire" if necessary. The last need not have been men- 
tioned, however, for like the Denver tourists, we can tes- 
tify that we receive everywhere the "truest and kindest 
courtesy." 

You may remember that one of the peculiar features of 
our journeys is that we never know where we are going, 
but last summer we thought we would be like other 
people, and make plans. As a result we assured our 
friends we were going straight to Mt. Washington via the 
Crawford Notch, but, as Mr. Hale has a way of saying in 

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his stories, "we did not go there at all." Why we did not 
fulfil so honest an intention we will reveal to you later. 

We started in good faith, Tuesday, July 7, driving 
along the familiar way through Lunenburg and Town- 
send Harbor, crossing the invisible State line as we 
entered Brookline, and spending the night, as we have 
often done, at the little hotel in Milford, N. H., journey- 
ing next day to Hooksett, via Amherst, Bedford and Man- 
chester. Nothing eventful occurred except the inaugura- 
tion of our sketchbook, a thing of peculiar interest to us, 
as neither of us knew anything of sketching. The book 
itself is worthy of mention, as it is the only copy we have 
ever seen. It has attractive form and binding, and is 
called "Summer Gleanings." There is a page for each day 
of the summer months, with a charming, and so often apt, 
quotation under each date. The pages are divided into 
three sections, one for "Jottings by the Way," one for a 
"Pencil Sketch, — not for exact imitation, but what it 
suggests," and a third for "Pressed Flowers." As it was 
a gift, and of no use but for the purpose for which it was 
intended, we decided it must be taken along, although one 
said it would be "awfully in the way." 

We enjoyed camping at noon by the roadside so much 
last summer, when the hotels were scarce, that we 
planned to make that the rule of this journey, and not the 
exception. We thought the hour after luncheon, while 
Charlie was resting, would be just the time to try to 
sketch. Our first "camp" was under a large tree, just be- 
fore we crossed into New Hampshire. We looked about 
for something to sketch, and a few attempts convinced us 
that, being ignorant of even the first rules of perspective, 

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our subjects must be selected with reference to our abil- 
ity, regardless of our taste. We went to work on a pair 
of bars — or a gate, rather — in the stone wall opposite. 
We were quite elated with our success, and next under- 
took a shed. After this feat, we gathered a few little 
white clovers, which we pressed in our writing tablet, 
made a few comments in the "jotting" column, and the 
"Summer Gleanings" began to mean something. 

We cannot tell you all we enjoyed and experienced 
with that little book. It was like opening the room 
which had "a hundred doors, each opening into a room 
with another hundred," especially at night, when our 
brains, fascinated and yet weary with the great effort 
spent on small accomplishment, and the finger nerves 
sensitive with working over unruly stems and petals, we 
only increased a thousandfold the pastime of the day by 
pressing whole fields of flowers, and attempting such 
sketching as was never thought of except in dreamland. 
A word or two about the quotations, then you may 
imagine the rest. What could be more apt for the first 
day of our journey than Shelley's 

"Away, away from men and towns 
To the wild wood and the downs," 

or, as we came in sight of the "White Hills," Whittier's 



and 



"Once more, O mountains, unveil 
Your brows and lay your cloudy mantles by." 

"0 more than others blest is he 
Who walks the earth with eyes to see, 
Who finds the hieroglyphics clear 
Which God has written everywhere," 

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as we journey along the Connecticut. Especially apt 
were the lines by Charles Cotton, when we had driven 
several miles out of our way to spend Sunday in Rumney, 
because we remembered the place so pleasantly : 

"Oh, how happy here's our leisure! 
Oh, how innocent our pleasure! 
O je valleys! O ye mountains! 
O ye groves and crystal fountains ! 
How I love at liberty 
By turns to come and visit ye!" 

Once more, as we drove along the Saco — 

"All, all, is beautiful. 
What if earth be but the shadow of heaven/' 

If you think we are writing up a book instead of a 
journey, let us tell you that the book cannot be left out 
if the journey is to be truly chronicled, for it was never 
out of mind, being constantly in sight, nor was it any 
trouble. In this respect, too, we fared better than the 
Denver ladies, for they were real artists, and never had 
any comfort after the first day, for their "oils" would not 
dry, even when they pinned them up around the buggy. 

We should have been miserable if we had stayed in 
Hooksett all the time we have been telling you about the 
sketch book, but we were off early in the morning for 
Concord, and as we drove into the city, Charlie knew 
better than we which turn to take to find the welcome 
which always awaits us. The clouds were very black 
when we left our friends at four o'clock, feeling we must 
go a few miles farther that day ; and when we had driven 
a mile or two a sudden turn in the road revealed to us 

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"cyclonic" symptoms. We saw an open shed, and asked 
a portly old man if we could drive in, as it looked like 
rain. "Yes, and quick too," he said, hobbling ahead of 
us. We were scarcely under cover before the cloud 
burst, and such a gust of wind came as it seemed must 
have overturned our phaeton if we had been exposed to 
it. We threw our wraps over our heads and ran to the 
house, where we were kindly received, amid the banging 
of doors and crackling of glass. The rain fell in sheets 
and the lightning flashes almost blinded us, but in an 
hour, perhaps less, we were on our way again, dry and 
peaceful, the sun shining and the clean, washed roads 
and prostrate limbs of trees simply reminding us there 
had been a shower. We spent the night at Penacook, 
formerly Fisherville. 

By this time we had decided we would deviate from 
our straight course to Mt. Washington just a bit, only a 
few miles, and spend a night at Weirs. We remembered 
very well our last drive from Weirs to Penacook via Til- 
ton and Franklin, and thought to take the same course 
this time. Franklin came to hand all right, but where 
was Tilton? We were sure we knew the way, but were 
equally sure Tilton should have put in an appearance. 
We inquired, and were much surprised when told we had 
taken a wrong turn, or failed, rather, to take the right 
one seven miles back. We had not only lost our way to 
Weirs, but we were off our course to Mt. Washington, 
and there is no such thing as going "across lots" in that 
part of the country. Not knowing what to do, we said 
we would have luncheon, and take time to accept the 
situation. 

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14000 MILES 

At this point we discovered that our diary was left 
twenty miles back at Penacook. Our first dilemma paled 
before this, for that diary means something; indeed, it 
means everything. Without it, life would not be worth 
living — even were it possible. We must have it. But 
how should we get it ? We went back to the man in the 
garden, and he told us a train would go down directly, 
and we could get back the same afternoon, he thought. 
We considered it only a moment, for having lost our way 
and the diary, we feared losing each other or Charlie 
next. We returned to the carriage, unharnessed Charlie, 
tied him to a telegraph pole, then took our luncheon. 
After a good rest our way seemed clear, and we started 
on towards Bristol, resolved that we would make no 
more plans, but give ourselves up to the guidance of 
Fate. We find in the "jotting column" for that day, "A 
criss-cross day." Our honest intention to go straight to 
Mt. Washington was overthrown, and we found our- 
selves at night castaways on the shores of Newfound 
Lake, while our letters awaited us at Weirs, and the 
diary was speeding its way to Plymouth, in response to a 
telegram. 

Eleven miles driving the next morning brought us to 
the Pemigewasset House, Plymouth, just in season to 
telephone our mail from Weirs on the one o'clock train. 
We felt like embracing the express boy who handed us 
the precious sealed package from Penacook. Thanks 
and a quarter seemed a poor expression of our real feel- 
ings. Perfect happiness restored, where should we go to 
enjoy it over Sunday? Fate suggested Rumney, and we 
quickly assented, remembering its delightful quiet, and 

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the lovely drive of eight miles. We could go across from 
Plymouth to Centre Harbor, and thence to Conway, as 
we had planned, but we would not. We had been de- 
feated and determined to stay so. The drive along the 
valley was as lovely as ever, and a look of pleasant recog- 
nition was on the face of our hostess at the "Stinson 
House" in Rumney. After supper we took our sketch 
book and strolled through the meadow to the river bank, 
quite artist like. We spent the next day quietly in our 
room, reading and writing, until towards night, then 
drove two miles to call on a lady who had found us out 
through the Transcript, and assured us a welcome if we 
ever drove to Rumney again. We had a delightful hour 
with our new friends, and left them with a promise to 
return in the morning for a few days. 

It would fill the Transcript if we were to tell you all 
we enjoyed in that little visit, the adventures, pedestrian 
excursions, camping on islands, nights in caves and 
barns, related by our friends, which made us long to ex- 
plore for ourselves the region about Rumney. Some of 
the Transcript readers may remember a letter two years 
ago (Feb. 15, 1884), from one of a party of six who 
braved Franconia Notch in winter. We read it with 
great interest at the time, and wondered from which 
house in Rumney so brave and jolly a party started. Our 
curiosity was more than gratified by finding ourselves 
guests in the hospitable home, and by meeting several of 
the party, two of whom arrived from Boston while we 
were there. One morning we bowled in the loft of the 
ideal barn, and one rainy afternoon we had lessons in 
perspective. Miss D. proved a good instructor, and we 

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thought we were fair pupils as we talked glibly of the 
station point, point of sight, base and horizontal lines, 
and the vanishing point, and reproduced Mrs. Q/s desk 
by rule. 

We reluctantly left our friends to their camping prep- 
arations, while we traveled over once more the route of 
the sleighing party. This was our fourth drive through 
the Pemigewasset Valley, but its beauty is ever new. 
We took two hours' rest at the entrance of a cathedral- 
like archway of trees, which now adorns our parlor in 
"oils." We tried to sketch properly, but, alas! all our 
points were "vanishing points" without Miss D. at hand, 
and we returned to the ways of ignorance. We spent 
the night at "Tuttle's," and heard from the cheery old 
lady and "Priscilla" the story of the sleighing party who 
were refused shelter at the Flume House, and though 
half-perished with cold had to drive back seven miles to 
spend the night with them. She told us how sorry she 
was for them, and how she built a roaring fire in the old 
kitchen fireplace, and filled the warming-pans for them. 
We imagined how good they must have felt buried in the 
hot feathers that cold night. 

We did not visit the Flume this time, but just paid our 
respects to the Old Man, took breath and a sketch at 
Echo Lake, and gathered mosses as we walked up and 
down the steep places through the Notch. We spent the 
night in Bethlehem, and enjoyed a superb sunset. We 
went several miles out of our way the next day to see the 
Cherry Mountain slide, which occurred the week before, 
We were introduced to the proprietor of the ruined farm, 
caressed the beautiful horse, pitied the once fine cow, 

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which now had scarcely a whole bone in her body, and 
learned many interesting details from the daughter, a 
bright girl. It was a forlorn spectacle, and a striking 
contrast to the drive we had after retracing our steps to 
Whitefield. Charlie had traveled far enough for such a 
hot day, but we knew the Lancaster post office had some- 
thing for us, and we could not wait, so started leisurely, 
promising to help poor Charlie all we could. He under- 
stood us well enough to stop at the foot of every hill, and 
at the top of very steep ones, to let us get out and walk. 
We were repaid a thousand times by the magnificent 
views of the Franconia range until we reached the high- 
est point, when the glories north opened before us. We 
were now facing new scenes for the first time since we 
left home, and yet we felt at home in Lancaster, for 
another Lancaster is our near neighbor. The postmaster 
looked relieved to find owners for his surplus mail, and 
as he handed out the seventh letter with a look of having 
finished his task, we said, "Is that all ?" for one was miss- 
ing. "I think that will do for once," he said. Two 
weeks later we sent him a card and the missing docu- 
ment came safely to hand down in Maine. 

Fate knows we like to drive north, and led us onward. 
We followed the Connecticut through the lovely valleys, 
crossing it and driving in Vermont one afternoon, en- 
joying the new country until we had left the White 
Mountains sixty miles behind us. We then turned 
directly east, and ten miles along the Mohawk River 
brought us to the entrance of Dixville Notch. We were 
bewildered by its beauty, grander even than the Fran- 
conia Notch. We reached the Dix House, the only habi- 

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tation in that wild spot, at three o'clock, and as soon as 
we could register our names we hastened away for 
Table Rock, a narrow peak 800 feet above the meadow in 
front of the Dix House and 3150 feet above the sea. It 
was the roughest climb we ever attempted — almost per- 
pendicular, and everything we took hold of seemed to 
give way. 

Once at the top we looked aghast at the narrow path, 
hardly four feet wide, then with open arms rushed across 
and embraced the flagstaff on Table Rock. It seemed as 
if the foundation was rocking beneath us, but after a 
little time we went back and forth confidently. The air 
was clear and the view very fine. Just below the summit, 
a tiny path, with scarcely a foothold, led to an ice cave, 
and we refreshed ourselves by looking into its cooling 
depths. When safely at the foot again we cut some 
spruce walking sticks for souvenirs and stripped the bark 
as we walked back to the Dix House. 

It rained the next day and the mountains were visible 
through the mist only now and then. We sketched 
Table Rock and the Notch profile in instal- 
ments, reading and writing between times, and enjoyed 
the very lonesomeness of the place. The clouds made 
way for the moon at night, but we were disheartened 
next morning to find they had settled down closer than 
ever, although the rain was over. We could not wait 
another day, and packed up, hoping it would all come 
out right, as many times before. Our wildest hopes were 
more than realized when we entered the Notch, and 
found it clear ahead. The clouds had driven through 
and settled about the meadows. It is two miles through 

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the Notch, and we walked nearly all the way. Every- 
thing is moss-grown and marked with decay. The Notch 
has its Old Man, its Flume and Cascades, and our ex- 
clamations burst forth at every turn. Such mosses, such 
high, ragged bluffs, such babbling brooks, and all so 
fresh after the rain! Was ever anything so beautiful? 
Suddenly we found ourselves in open space again, and 
driving along the Clear Stream meadows, we passed the 
little enclosure where are the graves of the first two 
inhabitants of this lonely region. Six or eight miles 
more brought us to Errol Dam, where we left Charlie in 
good care, while we took a five hours' trip on a tiny mail 
steamer. We thought we were to be the only passen- 
gers, but a young woman with an invalid brother, bound 
for the Rangeley Lakes, came at the last moment. We 
steamed along the Androscoggin River until within a 
half mile of Lake Umbagog, then turned into the Magal- 
loway. In course of time the little Parmachenee pushed 
up against a bank and we were landed in the glaring sun, 
to wait while the mail was carried two or three miles, 
and the two men had dinner. 

Fortunately we had a luncheon with us, or we should 
have had to content ourselves with crackers and 
molasses, and "bean suasion" with the brother and sister, 
at the only house in sight. We were back at Errol 
Dam at four o'clock, and as we paid the four dollars for 
our little trip the man said, "Too much, but we have to 
live out of you folks." 

There is a stage route from Errol Dam to Bethel, Me., 
but we preferred to follow the Androscoggin, so that 
eventful day finished off with a fourteen-miles drive 

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through the forest, over a road badly washed, with the 
river rushing madly along, as if bent on its own destruc- 
tion, then taking breath for awhile and looking placid as 
the Connecticut, but directly in a turmoil again as the 
rocks obstructed its course. Just as the sun dropped, we 
emerged from the forest into a broad plain, and four 
houses, widely separated, were in sight — the first habi- 
tations we had seen since we left Errol Dam. We knew 
one of them must be Chandler's, where we had been 
directed for the night. It was a lonesome place, and we 
did not feel quite comfortable when we found ourselves 
in a room on the first floor, having four windows and two 
doors, with no means of fastening any of them, and a 
"transient" man in the room adjoining. I am not sure 
but the Denver ladies' "loft" and "boy" might not have 
seemed preferable, only we had a revolver. Suffice it to 
say, our experience since we left Dixville Notch in the 
morning had been sufficiently fatiguing to insure rare 
sleep, in spite of open doors, barking dogs and heavy 
breathing of the "transient," and after a very palatable 
breakfast we took our leave, grateful for such good quar- 
ters in such a benighted country. 

We drove thirty miles that day, following the Andros- 
coggin all the way. Berlin Falls and the Alpine Cas- 
cades, along the way, are worth going miles to see. 
We camped at noon between Berlin Falls and Gorham 
and had a visit from five boys of various nationalities, 
some with berries and some with empty pails. They sat 
down on the ground with us and showed much interest 
in our operations, jabbering in their several dialects. "I 
know what she's doing; she's making them mountains," 

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one whispered. We looked quite like traveling parties 
we have seen, with Charlie munching his oats, and we 
asked them if they did not think we were gypsies. "No, 
indeed, we never thought such a thing; we thought you 
were ladies from Gorham." With this compliment we 
drove on toward Gorham, dropped our mail, and then 
turned directly eastward with the Androscoggin, to enjoy 
for the first time the drive from Gorham to Bethel, called 
the North Conway drive of that region. We spent a 
night at Shelburne, almost as nice as Rumney, and 
another at Bethel. 

With much regret we now parted from the Androscog- 
gin, and aimed for the Saco at Fryeburg. The heat was 
so intense that we stopped, ten miles sooner than we 
intended, at Lovell, driving the next day to Hiram, and 
the next to Hollis, so full of delightful recollections of 
the wonderful hospitality of stranger friends a few years 
ago. That charmed circle is now broken by death and 
change, but a welcome was ready for us from those who 
had heard about our visit there, and we were at home at 
once. There were many summer guests, but a cosy little 
attic room, full of quaint things, was left for us. The 
Saco runs just before the house, and we took the little 
walk to the "Indian's Cellar" where the river rushes 
through the narrow gorge, and it charmed us as much as 
before. 

We not only felt at home in Hollis, but really at home, 
for all between us and home was familiar, whatever 
route we might take. We eagerly drove towards Saco, 
for that was our next mail point, and the letters that 
came direct, and those that followed us around the 

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country, came to hand there. We talked over their 
newsy contents as we drove miles on Old Orchard 
Beach that afternoon. We spent the night at Bay View, 
and part of the next day, for the thunder showers fol- 
lowed one after another so closely, we could not get an 
order to the stable, and time for a dry start in between. 
We finally ordered Charlie harnessed after one shower, 
and brought to the door after the next. This plan 
worked too well, for after all our hasty packing off, sides 
on, boot up, all ready for a deluge, it never rained a drop. 
We called at the Saco post office again, and then took a 
road we thought would take us by the house of a friend 
in Kennebunkport, but it proved to be a lonely road with 
neither friends nor foes, and before we knew it Kenne- 
bunkport was left one side, and we were well on our way 
to Kennebunk. Despite our muddy and generally de- 
moralized condition, we called on friends there before 
going to the hotel for the night. We drove thirty-seven 
miles the next day, through Wells, York and Ports- 
mouth, to Hampton. Ten miles the next morning took 
us to Newburyport, where we stopped over Sunday for a 
visit. 

All was well at home, so we thought we would still 
follow the ocean, as this was a sort of water trip. (We 
had followed the Merrimac, Pemigewasset, Connecticut, 
Mohawk, Androscoggin and Saco rivers.) The old 
towns, Newbury, Rowley, Ipswich and Essex, are 
always interesting, and Cape Ann is so delightful we 
could not resist the temptation to "round" it again, and 
have another look at Pigeon Cove, one of the loveliest 
places we have ever seen. 

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We drove on through Gloucester to Rockport on the 
Cape, and there passed the night. We were hardly out 
of sight of the hotel in the morning before it began to 
rain, and the thunder rumbled among the rocks as if it 
would unearth them. We did not enjoy it, and just as it 
reached a point unbearable, and the rain was coming in 
white sheets, we saw a private stable and begged the 
privilege of driving in. We were urged to go into the 
house, but declined, thinking the shower would soon be 
over. For a full half hour we sat there, rejoicing after 
each flash that we still lived, when a man appeared and 
insisted we should go in, as the rain would last another 
hour, and it would be better for our horse to have his 
dinner. We declined dinner for ourselves, but the deli- 
cious milk the good wife brought us was very refreshing, 
and if we had not accepted that boiled rice, with big 
plums and real cream after their dinner, it would have 
been the mistake of our lives. 

Soon after noon the sun came out in full glory, and we 
left our kind host and hostess with hearty thanks, the 
only return they would accept. Everything was fresh 
after the shower, and the roads were clean as floors. 
Full of enthusiasm we drove on and by some mistake, 
before we knew it, Cape Ann was "rounded" without a 
glimpse of the "pretty part" of Pigeon Cove. We had no 
time to retrace our way, so left Pigeon Cove, and Anni- 
squam friends, for the next time, and hurried on through 
Gloucester, anticipating the wonderfully beautiful drive 
of twenty miles before us. At Magnolia we inquired for 
friends, and were directed to the cottage struck by light- 
ning that morning. The waves dashed angrily on the 

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14000 MILES 

rocks at Magnolia Point, and the surf at Manchester-by- 
the-Sea would have held us entranced for hours. It was 
the time for driving and we met all the fine turnouts and 
jaunty village carts as we went through Beverly Farms, 
with the tangled slopes and bewitching little paths or 
cultivated terraces with broad avenues, the stately en- 
trances assuring you that both paths and avenues lead to 
some princely "cottage." 

A night at Beverly was followed by a crooked wander- 
ing through Salem and Marblehead Neck, then on 
through Swampscott and Lynn to Maplewood, where we 
spent an hour or two, then drove into Boston. The city 
was draped in memory of General Grant. We drove 
through the principal streets down town, then over Bea- 
con Hill and through Commonwealth avenue to the Mill- 
dam, winding up our day's drive of nearly forty 
miles by pulling over Corey Hill on our way to Brighton, 
where we gave Charlie and ourselves a day's rest. As we 
were packing our traps into the phaeton for the last time 
on this trip, for we usually drive the forty miles from 
Boston, or vicinity, to Leominster in one day, our friend 
gave the phaeton a little shake and said, "This will wear 
out some day; you must have driven two thousand miles 
in it." "Oh ! yes," we said, and referring to that encyclo- 
pedic diary, exclaimed, "Why, we have driven over five 
thousand miles!" He complimented its endurance, but 
we thought of the "one hoss shay." 

It was a bright day, and the familiar roads seemed 
pleasant as we drove along through Newton, Watertown 
and Stow, leaving Lexington and Concord one side this 
time. We found a very pretty spot for our last "camp," 

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and there we squared our accounts, named our journey 
and pressed a bright bit of blackberry vine for the 
sketchbook. The afternoon drive was even more 
familiar. We let Charlie take his own time, and did not 
reach home until eight o'clock, and finding everybody 
and everything just as we left them nearly five weeks 
before, gradually all that had come between began to 
seem like one long dream. 

"Summer Gleanings" lies on our table, and we often 
take it up and live over again the pleasant days recorded 
there in "timely jottings," crude little sketches, and 
pretty wayside flowers, and then we just take a peep into 
the possibilities of the future by turning over a leaf and 
reading — 

"To one who has been long in city pent," 
and think what a nice beginning that will be for our 
fifteenth "annual." 



108 



CHAPTER VII. 

THE CATSKIIXS, LAKE GEORGE AND GREEN MOUNTAINS. 

In answer to the oft-repeated queries, "Did you have 
your journey last summer?" and "Where did you go?" 
we reply, "Oh, yes; we had a delightful journey. We 
were away four weeks and drove five hundred and 
seventy-five miles. We went all through Berkshire, up 
the Hudson, among the Catskills, then on to Albany, 
Saratoga, Lake George, Lake Champlain and home over 
the Green Mountains." 

Lovers of brevity, people who have no time or fondness 
for details, and those who care more for the remotest 
point reached than how we got there, will stop here. 
Those of more leisurely inclination, who would enjoy our 
zigzagging course, so senseless to the practical mind, and 
would not object to walking up a hill, fording a stream 
or camping by the wayside, we cordially invite to go with 
us through some of the experiences of our fifteenth annual 
drive. 

We were all ready to go on the Fourth of July, but 
Charlie does not like the customary demonstrations of 
that day, and for several years he has been permitted to 
celebrate his Independence in his stall. There were 
three Fourth of Julys this year, and we waited patiently 
until Independence was fully declared. All being quiet 
on Tuesday, the sixth, we made ready, and at a fairly 
early hour in the morning everything had found its own 
place in the phaeton and we were off. As usual, we had 

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made no plans, but our thoughts had traveled Maine- 
ward, until at the last moment the Catskills were sug- 
gested. The heat which often lingers about the Fourth 
was at its height, and the thought of Princeton's bracing 
air was so refreshing we gladly started in that direction. 
We drove leisurely, taking in the pretty views and 
gathering flowers, camped by the roadside two hours at 
noon, and then on through Princeton to Rutland. We 
visited that pretty town three years ago, when the Maus- 
chopauge House was being built, and we resolved then to 
spend a night some time under its roof. It is finely 
located, commanding extensive views, and is in every 
way a charming place to spend a scorching summer night. 
The cool breezes blowing through our room, the glorious 
sunset, and the one lone rocket, the very last of the 
Fourth, that shot up seemingly from a dense forest, two 
miles away, and impressed us more than a whole pro- 
gram of Boston pyrotechnics, calling forth the remark, 
"How much more we enjoy a little than we do a great 
deal," to which a lady, kindly entertaining us, replied, 
"Oh, you are too young to have learned that," all these 
are fresh in our memory. 

Just as we were leaving in the morning, our kindly 
lady introduced us to a stately looking Boston lady, and 
told her of our habit of driving about the country. "Oh," 
she says, "that is charming. I do not like woman's 
rights, but this is only a bit of Boston independence." 

It was hot after we left breezy Rutland, and we drove 
the twelve miles to North Brookfield very leisurely, 
taking our lunch before we visited our friends there, and 
at once declaring our determination to leave before 

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supper, as it was too hot to be any trouble to anybody. 
We sat in the house and we sat in the barn, but there 
was no comfort anywhere. Late in the afternoon we 
resisted the protests, but not the strawberries, and started 
off for the eleven miles to Ware. Our dread of the heat 
was all wasted, for we had a very pleasant drive, but, 
when we were once in that roasting, scorching hotel, we 
almost wished we had not been so considerate of our 
friends. 

Twenty-five miles driving the next day, stopping at 
the comfortable hotel in Belchertown for dinner, brought 
us to Northampton. We drove about its lovely streets 
an hour before going to the hotel, and passed the evening 
with friends, who took us through Smith College grounds 
by moonlight, on our way back to the hotel. The lux- 
uries of Northampton offset the discomforts of Ware, 
and we were filled with the atmosphere which pervades 
the country all about, through Mr. Chadwick's glowing 
descriptions, as we followed along the Mill River, mark- 
ing the traces of the disaster on our way to Williams- 
burg. Up, up we went, until we found ourselves on the 
threshold of Mr. Chadwick's summer home, in Chester- 
field. He took us out into the field to show us the fine 
view, with a glimpse of old Greylock in the distance. We 
were on the heights here, and went down hill for a while, 
but it was not long before we were climbing again, and 
after six miles of down and up we sought refuge for the 
night in Worthington. 

There was rain and a decided change in the weather 
that night, and a fire was essential to comfort during the 
cheerless early morning hours. We took the opportunity 

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to rest Charlie and write letters, and the ten miles' drive 
to Hinsdale in the afternoon was quite pleasant. It was 
refreshing for a change to be chilly, rather than hot and 
dusty. At Peru, six miles from Worthington, we 
reached the point where the waters divide between the 
Connecticut and the Housatonic. 

The night at Hinsdale was without special interest, but 
the drive from there to Stockbridge will never be for- 
gotten. Could it be that only two days before we were 
dissolving with the heat, and now we needed our 
warmest wraps. The dust was laid, all Nature fresh, 
Charlie was at his best, and away we sped towards the 
lovely Berkshire region, with its fine roads, beautiful 
residences, cultivated estates and the superb views along 
the valley of the Housatonic, in the grand old towns of 
Pittsfield, Lenox, Lee and Stockbridge. Mr. Plumb, the 
well-known proprietor of the quaint old inn in Stock- 
bridge, remembered our visit there eleven years ago, and 
asked us if we found our way to New York that time. 
He said he remembered telling us if we had found our 
way so far, we should find no difficulty in crossing the 
State line. Somehow, we were afraid of the New York 
State line then, but we have so far overcome it, that, after 
we crossed this year, we felt so much at home that the 
revolver was packed away a whole day, for the first time 
since we have carried it. 

Any Berkshire book will tell you all about Mr. Plumb's 
inn, the Sedgwick burial place, Jonathan Edwards and all 
the rest, and we will go on, leaving enough to talk hours 
about. We cannot go through Great Barrington without 

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lingering a bit, however, giving a thought to Bryant and 
the lovely poems he wrote there, before we are diverted 
by the wonderful doings of Mrs. Mark Hopkins. An 
imposing structure puzzled us. "What is it?" we asked 
a man. "It is a mystery," he said. We afterward were 
told that it was designed for Mrs. Hopkins's private resi- 
dence at present, but would be devoted to art some time 
in the future. We cannot vouch for the latter statement, 
but we can for the magnificence of the edifice, as well as 
for the church with its wonderful Roosevelt organ and 
royal parsonage, largely due to Mrs. Hopkins's liberal 
hand. Many travel by private car, but Mrs. Hopkins has 
a private railroad, and when she wishes to visit her San 
Francisco home, her palace on wheels is ordered to her 
door, as ordinary mortals call a cab. 

Sheffield had even more attractions than Great 
Barrington and Mrs. Hopkins, for there we got home 
letters. Next comes Salisbury, and now we are in 
Connecticut. We spent the night at an attractive hotel 
in Lake Village, and fancied we were at Lake Winnipi- 
Seogee, it was so like Hotel Weirs. Perhaps you think 
we forgot we were going to the Catskills. Oh, no ; but 
we had not been able to decide whether we would go to 
West Point and drive up the Hudson, or to Albany and 
drive down, so we concluded to "do" Berkshire until our 
course was revealed. The turnpike to Poughkeepsie was 
suggested, and as we had reached the southern limit of 
the so-called Berkshire region, it met our favor, and we 
went to Sharon, then crossed the New York State line, 
which is no more formidable than visible. Still there 

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was a difference. It seemed as if we were among 
foreigners, but the courteous answers to inquiries and 
manifest kindly feeling won us at once. 

Turnpikes are too public for a wayside camp, and as 
there was no hotel at hand, and Charlie must have rest, 
we asked permission of a farmer to drive into a little cosy 
corner where we could all be very comfortable. He 
would leave his dinner, although we protested, and 
helped unharness Charlie, then he brought us milk and 
luscious cherries, and when dinner was over, his wife 
came and invited Charlie to eat some of the nice grass in 
her front yard. We led him to his feast, and had a very 
pleasant chat with her, while he reveled in New York 
hospitality. This was in Armenia. From there we drove 
over the mountain to Washington Hollow, where we had 
a comfortable night in a spacious, old-fashioned, home- 
like hotel. The twelve miles to Poughkeepsie were very 
pleasant, and after we had nearly shaken our lives out 
over the rough pavement in search of a guidebook of the 
Catskills, we were ready for dinner and a two-hours' rest 
at a hotel. The afternoon drive of seventeen, miles to 
Rhinebeck on the old post road from New York to 
Albany was fine. 

This was our first drive along the Hudson ; but were it 
not for the occasional glimpses of the farther shore 
through the wooded grounds, we might have fancied our- 
selves driving through Beverly-Farms-by-the-Sea. The 
stately entrances and lodges of these grand old estates, 
with their shaded drives, towards the turrets and towers 
we could see in the distance, looked almost familiar to us. 

It rained very hard during the night at Rhinebeck and 

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until ten o'clock in the morning. While waiting for the 
final shower, we discussed our route for the day, and 
somehow inclination got the better of wisdom, and we 
left the old post road for one which we were told would 
take us near the river. When shall we learn that river 
roads are rarely near the river? We hope we learned it 
for life that day, for repentance set in early, and has not 
ceased yet, because of our compassion for Charlie. 

The roads grew heavier every hour, and the twenty- 
six miles seemed endless. We scarcely saw the river, 
and the outline of the Catskills was all there was to 
divert us. We will touch as briefly as possible on the 
dinner at Tivoli. "Driving up the Hudson must be 
charming," our friends wrote us with envy, but we forgot 
its charms when we were placed at the table which the 
last members of the family were just leaving, and the 
"boiled dish" was served. We were near the river, how- 
ever, for which we had sacrificed comfort for the day. 
We survived the ordeal, smothering our smiles at the 
misery our folly had brought us, and with renewed avow- 
als that we would never be enticed from a straightfor- 
ward course by a river road again, we went on our 
wretched way. Thunder clouds gathered and broke over 
the Catskills, but the grumbling thunder was all that 
crossed the river to us. The fact that somehow the river 
was to be crossed, and exactly how we knew not, did not 
make us any happier. You may remember Charlie is 
particular about ferries. 

Is there no end to this dragging through the mud, we 
thought, as the showers threatened, the night came on 
and no one was near to tell us whether we were right or 

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wrong, when we came to turn after turn in the road. We 
were about lost in mud and despair, when we heard a 
steam whistle, and came suddenly upon express and 
freight trains, a railway station and ferryboat landing all 
in a huddle. Charlie's ears were up and he needed all our 
attention. We drove as near as he was willing to go, 
then went to inquire the next step. No old scows this 
time, happily, but a regular ferryboat, and the ferryman 
has a way of whispering confidentially to timid horses 
which wins them at once, so we were soon safely landed 
into the darkness and rain on the other side. We spent 
the night in Catskill Village, and gave the evening up to 
study of the ins and outs of the Catskills. The heavy 
rain all night and half the morning prepared more mud 
for us, and we were five hours driving twelve miles. The 
wheels were one solid mass of clay mud, and we amused 
ourselves watching it as it reluctantly rolled off. 

We took directions for the old Catskill Mountain 
House, but, luckily for Charlie, we guessed wrong at 
some turn where there was no guide-board, or place to 
inquire, and brought up at the Sunny Slope House at the 
foot of the mountain instead of at the top. We walked 
two miles after supper and were tempted to stay over a 
day and walk up the four-mile path to the famous 
Kaaterskill House, but it was a beautiful day to go 
through Kaaterskill Clove, and it seemed best to make 
sure of it. It was up hill about four miles, and as 
interesting as Franconia and Dixville notches, with its 
Fawn's Leap, Profile, Grotto, Cascades and superb views. 
All this we should have missed if we had gone over the 
mountain. We dined at Tannersville and fancied we 

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were in Jerusalem, for every hotel in the place was full 
of Jews. The afternoon drive along the valley was very 
restful, after the morning's rough climb. 

We were now in a country entirely new to us, and we 
little dreamed that the Schoharie Kill or Creek driving 
would eclipse the Hudson. We had at last found a river 
road which followed the river. The shore scenery was 
simply exquisite. Miles of hills — mountains we should 
call them — with cultivated grain fields even to the 
summit. Surely we had never seen anything more 
lovely. The roads were not like the post road on the 
Hudson; indeed, they were the worst roads we ever 
encountered. Annual overflows undo the repairs which 
are rarely made, and in many places the highway is 
simply the bed which the creek has deserted. At home 
we improve roads by clearing the stones from them, but 
there they improve them by dumping a cartload of 
stones into them. We learned this fact by hearing an 
enterprising citizen declare he would do it himself, if the 
town authorities did not attend to their duty, and we can 
testify to the truth of it, having been over the roads. 

Our hotel experiences were new, too. We spent one 
night at Lexington, and when Charlie was brought to the 
door and all was ready for our departure we noticed 
something wrong about the harness. Investigation 
proved that things were decidedly mixed at the stable, 
and probably a part of Charlie's new harness had gone to 
Hunter, ten miles back, after the skating rink frolic of 
the night before. We had suspected our choice of hotels 
for that night was not a happy one, but the landlord did 
his best. He despatched a man to Hunter, and took our 

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bags back to our room, saying we should stay till the 
next day at his expense. We resumed our reading and 
writing, the stray harness returned that night, and early 
next morning we shook the dust of Lexington from us 
and were on our way again.. 

We drove twenty-six miles that day over the crazy 
roads close by the Schoharie all the way. We had been 
hemmed in for some time, with the creek on one side and 
overhanging rocks on the other, when we came suddenly 
to a ford, the first we had chanced to come across in our 
travels, and we feared it might be more objectionable to 
Charlie than a ferry, for he is really afraid of water. 
Only a few rods to the right was a leaping, foaming cas- 
cade seventy-five or one hundred feet high, which was a 
real terror to him, but he seemed to take in the situation 
and to see at once, as we did, that escape or retreat was 
impossible and the stream must be crossed. Oh, how we 
dreaded it! but we drew up the reins with a cheering 
word to him and in he plunged, pulling steadily through 
in spite of his fright. "Well, that is over, what next?" 
we wondered. 

We wanted to drive to Middlebury for the night, but a 
fatherly old man we saw on the road said, "I wouldn't 
drive eight miles more tonight if I were you ; it will make 
it late, and you better stop at Breakabean." We asked 
the meaning of the unique name and were told it signified 
rushes, but we saw none. Things were rushing, however, 
at the speck of a hotel, which was undergoing general 
repairs and cleaning. The cabinet organ was in the mid- 
dle of the sitting-room and everything socially clustered 
around it. Out of two little rooms up stairs we managed 

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to get things convenient. To be sure we had to pin up a 
shawl for a screen in our dressing-room, and a few such 
little things, but we assured our hostess we could be 
comfortable and should not be annoyed by the brass 
band of native talent which would practise in the little 
dancing-hall close by our rooms. When we went down 
to supper all was peaceful ; the organ had retired to its 
corner and things were "picked up" generally. 

There were two ways we could take the next day, but 
to avoid the mountain we were strongly advised to take 
the ford. We objected, but yielded at last, being assured 
it was by far our best course. If it was the best we are 
heartily glad we took it, and we got through the morn- 
ing safely, but we are never going there again. We 
reached the ford in time, but had we not known it was a 
ford by directions given and unmistakable signs, we 
should as soon have thought of driving into the sea. The 
water was high, current strong — how deep we knew not 
— and it was quite a distance across. Charlie was sensible 
as before. We tucked our wraps in close, for where roads 
are made of rocks you cannot expect a smooth-running 
ford, and in we plunged again. Directly the water was 
over the hubs, and we felt as if it would reach the 
carriage top before we could get across. We held our 
breath in the spot where the current was strongest, but 
Charlie pulled steadily and all went well. 

We understood our course would be level after the 
ford. The man must have forgotten the tow-path. From 
the ford we went right up on to the side of a cliff, and 
for a mile or more we were on the narrowest road we ever 
drove on, with the cliff fifty to one hundred feet straight 

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up on our left, and a hundred feet down on our right was 
the river, or Schoharie Creek, with nothing to hinder our 
being there at short notice, not even a stick for protec- 
tion. When we got to a rational road we inquired if we 
had been right, and were told "Yes, if you came by the 
tow-path ; you would have had to ford three times if you 
had kept the valley ." 

We told you at the outset that the Schoharie Valley is 
very beautiful. It lies now like a picture in our memory, 
and despite rocks, fords and tow-paths, we were very 
reluctant to leave it, but we were aiming for Saratoga, 
and at Schoharie we were advised to go by the way of 
Albany. It was the week of the bi-centennial celebra- 
tion, and nothing but Albany was thought of, so we fell 
in with the multitude, and with a last look at Schoharie, 
turned east. The country was dull by contrast for a 
while, but became more interesting as we drew nearer the 
Hudson. We spent the night at Knowersville, and after 
everybody else had boarded the crowded excursion train 
to the Capital we leisurely started off via the plank road. 
Every grocer's wagon or coal cart we met had a bit of 
ribbon, if no more, in honor of the occasion ; and miles 
before we reached the city, strips of bunting adorned the 
humble dwellings. The city itself was one blaze of 
'beauty. The orange, generously mixed with the red, 
white and blue, made the general effect extremely 
brilliant. We drove through all the principal streets and 
parks, dodging the processions — which were endless — 
with their bands and gay paraphernalia, to say 
nothing of the "trade" equipages, which suggested that 
all the business of Albany was turned into the streets. 

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We went all over the Capitol building and had a fine 
view of the surrounding country from its upper rooms; 
then, feeling we had "done" the bi-centennial to our sat- 
isfaction, we drove nine miles up the Hudson to Cohoes 
for the night. When the porter brought our bags in, he 
said, with evident delight, "He's given you the best 
rooms in the house," and they were very nice; but 
luxuries are not always comforts, and we have not for- 
gotten sitting bolt upright on the top of a marble table, 
with our book held high, in order to get near enough to 
the gaslight to read. 

Everybody we saw the next day was dressed up and 
bound for Albany, for the President was to be there, but 
we were impatient for our letters at Saratoga and went 
on. The twenty-five miles was easily accomplished, and 
we found a large mail. In the evening we strolled about, 
enjoyed the fireworks in Congress Park, and talked over 
our plans for the next day. We had seen all the attrac- 
tions about Saratoga in previous visits, except Mt. 
McGregor. We had thought to let Charlie rest, and go 
by rail, but were told we could drive up without the least 
difficulty, and that it was right on our way to Glen's 
Falls. This seemed our best course, and we tried it, only 
to find, when too late, that the road had been neglected 
since the railroad was built, and was in a very rough 
condition. One led Charlie up and down the mountain, 
and the other walked behind to pick up any bags or 
wraps which might be jolted out on the way. The view 
from the hotel and the Grant Cottage is very pretty, and 
if we had been free from encumbrance, we should have 
enjoyed the walk up and down very much. As it was, we 

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could only laugh at ourselves and say, "Poor Charlie!" 
We had been to Mt. McGregor, however, and that is 
something, and it chanced to be the anniversary of Gen- 
eral Grant's death. 

We spent the night at Glen's Falls, and tried in vain to 
find some one who could tell us how to go home over the 
Green Mountains. We knew the way from Lake Cham- 
plain, having driven up that way several years ago, and 
finally concluded the longest way round might be the 
pleasantest way home. We had been to Lake George, 
and that was one reason we wanted to go again ; so off 
we skipped over the nine miles' plank road, and sat for 
two hours on the shore in front of the Fort William 
Henry House writing letters, which ought to have been 
inspired, for we dipped our pens in the waters of the 
beautiful lake. When we went to the stable for Charlie, 
we found an old man who knew all about the Green 
Mountains, and if we had seen him at Glen's Falls we 
should have been on our direct way home. Our last plan 
was too pleasant to repent of now, and we took directions 
towards Lake Champlain. We had to retrace our way on 
the plank road several miles, then go across country to 
Fort Ann, a distance of sixteen miles. It is perplexing 
when you leave the main roads, there are so many ways 
of going across, and no two people direct you the same, 
which makes you sure the road you did not take would 
have been better. 

At Fort Ann we had comforts without luxuries, in the 
homeliest little old-fashioned hotel, and stayed until the 
next afternoon to give Charlie a rest, then drove twelve 
miles to Whitehall, where we had a good-looking hotel 

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and no comforts. There were things enough, but they 
needed the touch of a woman's hand. It must have been 
a man who hung the looking-glass behind the bed. We 
rearranged, however, and borrowed a table and chair 
from an open room near by, and got along very well. 
These were trifles compared with the pouring rain, which 
was making mud out of the clayey soil which the 
Catskills could hardly compete with. We almost 
repented, but would not turn back when only fourteen 
miles were between us and friends. We think the men 
who held a consultation as to our best way to Benson 
must have conspired against us, or they never would have 
sent us by the Bay road. The rain ceased, but the mud, 
the slippery hills and the heathenish roads every way! 
We turned and twisted, stopped at every farmer's door to 
ask if we could be right, and more than once got the most 
discouraging of all answers, "Yes, you can go that way." 
The spinning of a top seems as near straight as that drive 
did. I know we could not do it again, and I am surer 
yet we shall not try. 

When, at last, we struck the stage road, things 
seemed more rational, and Charlie's ears became very 
expressive. As we drove into Benson he tore along and 
nearly leaped a ditch in his haste to turn into our friend's 
stable, where Cousin Charlie fed him so lavishly with 
oats seven years ago. No one seemed to know exactly 
how we got there, but our welcome was none the less 
hearty. 

Now we were all right and needed no directions, for 
from this point our way over the Green Mountains was 
familiar, and after a short visit we turned towards home, 

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anticipating every bit of the one hundred and fifty miles' 
drive. At Fairhaven we lunched with another cousin 
while Charlie rested, and then had a most charming 
drive to Rutland. We now follow the line of the Central 
Vermont and Cheshire Railroad quite closely all the way 
to Fitchburg ; but, fine as the scenery is by rail, one gets 
hardly a hint of its beauty by the carriage road. We rode 
seven miles on the steps of a car when returning from 
Saratoga later in the season, hoping for a glimpse, at 
least, of the beautiful gap between Ludlow and Chester, 
which compares favorably with Dixville Notch or 
Kaaterskill Clove, but a good coating of dust and cinders 
was the only reward. For more than a mile the carriage 
road winds through the gorge, the mountains high and 
very close on either side, and apparently without an 
opening. 

One of the delights of our wanderings is to stop at a 
strange post office, and have a whole handful of letters 
respond to our call. Chester responded very generously, 
for here the truant letters, which were each time a little 
behind, and had been forwarded and reforwarded, met 
the ever prompt ones and waited our arrival. A few 
miles from Chester we found lovely maidenhair ferns by 
the roadside, and were gathering and pressing them, 
when an old man, in a long farm wagon, stopped and 
asked if we were picking raspberries. We told him it 
was rather late for raspberries, but we had found pretty 
ferns. To our surprise this interested him, and he 
talked enthusiastically of ferns and flowers, saying he 
had one hundred varieties in his garden, and asking if we 
ever saw a certain agricultural journal which was a 

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14000 MILES 

treasure-house of knowledge to him. Still he was not a 
florist, but a vegetable gardener, and we learned ever so 
much about the business, and for a while could talk 
glibly of Angel of Midnight corn and Blue-eyed (?) 
pease and so on. He gave quite a discourse, too, on the 
advantages of co-operation and exchange of ideas. He 
told us how much he enjoyed a fair at the New England 
Institute Building, and was interested to know that we 
saw it when in flames. Our pleasant chat was brought to 
a sudden stop, just as he was telling us of his ambitious 
daughter and other family details, by other travelers, for 
whom we had to clear the road. 

We spent a night pleasantly at Saxton's River, and 
received the courtesies of friends, then on through Bel- 
lows Falls and Keene towards Monadnock. We wanted 
to go to the Mountain House for the night, but it was 
several miles out of our way, and we were tired as well 
as Charlie, with thirty miles' driving in the heat, so 
contented ourselves with recollections of two delightful 
visits there, and stopped at Marlboro, five miles from 
Keene. 

When we were packing up in the phaeton, the next 
morning, a lady brought us three little bouquets, the third 
and largest for Charlie, we fancy. It was a very pleasant 
attention to receive when among strangers and gave us 
a good send-ofT for our last day's drive. Forty miles is a 
long drive at the end of a long journey, but Charlie 
seemed fully equal to it, and all went well as we 
journeyed along the familiar route through Troy, Fitz- 
william, Winchendon, Ashburnham and Fitchburg. We 
dined at Winchendon and visited the friends in Fitchburg 

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from whom we have a standing invitation for our last 
tea out. The five miles from Fitchburg to Leominster 
Charlie never counts. He knows his own stall awaits 
him. Our last day, which began so pleasantly with a 
floral testimony from a stranger, ended with a night- 
blooming cereus reception in our own home. 

"Did you take Summer Gleanings," do I hear some 
friend ask? Oh yes, we took it, but not one sketch did 
we add to it. The fever for sketching ran high last year 
and spent itself, but every day of the July pages is radiant 
with pressed flowers and ferns. One more trip and the 
book will be full, "a thing of beauty," which will be "a 
joy forever." 



126 



CHAPTER VIII. 

NARRAGANSETT PIER AND MANOMET POINT. 

"Think on thy friends when thou haply seest 
Some rare, noteworthy object in thy travels; 
Wish them partakers of thy happiness." 

We thought of omitting our annual lettter to the 
Transcript, believing that vacations in everything are 
good; but, even before the journey existed, except in 
mind, a report of it was assumed as a matter of course, 
as the part belonging to our friends, who have not found 
opportunity to travel in our gypsy fashion. Then, too, 
we remembered the lines above, quoted by Andrew Car- 
negie, as we journeyed with him in his "Four in Hand 
through Britain," and still more delightful "Round the 
World," all in a hammock in those scorching July days, 
without a touch of fatigue or sea-sickness. Even a 
carriage journey on paper has some advantages, no dust, 
no discomfort of any kind ; but we prefer the real thing, 
and enjoyed it so much we will change our mind and 
tell you a little about it. The places are all so familiar, 
and so near the "Hub" of the universe, that when you 
get to the end you may feel, as we did, as if you had not 
been anywhere after all. We did, however, drive four 
hundred miles, and had a very delightful time. 

Before we really start, we must introduce to you the 
new member of our party. With deep regret and many 
tender memories we tell you we parted with our Charlie 
last spring, and a big, strong Jerry came to take his place. 

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A friend in cultured Boston said, "Why, how will Jerry 
look in the Transcript?" 

We did not go until September, and, like every one 
else, you may wonder why we waited so late, when we 
have often started as soon as the "crackers" were fired 
off. Well, Jerry had not become used to our climate, 
although July was hot enough for any Southerner. Then 
the company season came, and various things made it 
advisable to wait until September. We were quite recon- 
ciled, because you know all those "conjunctions" of the 
planets were to culminate in August, and it seemed likely 
the world was to be turned upside down. We thought 
it would be so much pleasanter to be swallowed up by 
the same earthquake, or blown away by the same cyclone 
as our home friends. 

Jerry waxed in strength, the world still stood, the last 
summer guest had departed, and on the afternoon of 
Sept. 8, we started for Stow. "What on earth are you 
going there for?" and similar comments reveal the 
impressions of our friends ; but we knew why, and do not 
mind telling you. We were going to Bcwton to begin our 
journey, and we could not go beyond Stow that after- 
noon, without going farther than we liked to drive Jerry 
the first day, for he is young and we were determined to 
be very considerate of him. We knew we should be com- 
fortable at the little, weather-beaten hotel, and that Jerry 
would have the best of care. 

How lovely that afternoon drive ! It was the day after 
those terrific storms and gales, the final "conjunction," 
probably, and there was an untold charm in everything. 
As we drove leisurely along, gathering flowers to press 

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for "Summer Gleanings," we thought of our friends who 
were speeding their way back to New York just at the 
time when the country is loveliest, and knew they were 
envying us. Still, somehow it did not seem as if we were 
traveling, but only going to drive as we had been doing 
all summer. Perhaps we missed the July heat and dust ! 

"Still as Sunday" gives no idea of the quiet of Stow. 
It seemed as if one might live forever there, and perhaps 
one could, if permitted, for just as we were leaving the 
hotel for a little stroll, our landlady was saying to some 
"patent medicine man," "We don't have any rheumatism 
here, nobody ever dies, but when they get old they are 
shot." 

We had not walked far before we came to a cemetery, 
and, remembering the landlady's remark, we went in to 
read the inscriptions. No allusion was made to shooting, 
but if it was a familiar custom the omission is not 
strange. We noted a few epitaphs which interested us: 

"When I pass by, with grief I see 
My loving mate was taken from me. 
Taken by him who hath a right 
To call for me when he sees fit." 

"A wife so true there are but few, 
And difficult to find, 
A wife more just and true to trust, 
There is not left behind." 

"A while these frail machines endure. 
The fabric of a day, 
Then know their vital powers no more, 
But moulder back to clay." 

" Friends and physicians could not save 
My mortal body from the grave." 



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There were six stones in close proximity bearing these 
familiar lines — 

"Stop, traveler, as you pass by, 
As you are now, so once was I. 
As I am now, so you must be. 
Prepare for death and follow me." 

All that night was lost, for we never woke once. Was 
it the stillness? or was it that cosy, bright room, with its 
very simple, but effective, "homey" touches? Be that as 
it may, we were fresh as the morning, and ready to enjoy 
every mile of the drive to Boston, gladdening our hearts 
with the sight of friends as we tarried now and then. We 
in Boston and our Boston friends in the country was 
something new, but a room at the B. Y. W. C. A. is next 
to home, and we heartily recommend it to homeless 
ladies traveling as we were, or on shopping expeditions. 
The night, with the unceasing din of the horse cars, and 
the thousand and one noises peculiar to the city, was a 
marvelous contrast to Stow, but in time we became 
Adjusted to our environments, and were lost in sleep. 

How delightful to be in Boston, and know that there 
were only two things in the whole city we wanted — a 
Buddhist catechism and a horn hairpin. These procured, 
we went for Jerry and began the day, which was to be 
devoted to making calls. We went spinning along over 
the smoothly paved Columbus avenue on our way to the 
Highlands, and rattled back on cobble-paved Shawmut 
avenue. Dinner over, off we started for Allston, Somer- 
ville and Cambridge, and as it was not yet five o'clock 
when we came back over the Mill-dam, we could not 
resist turning off West Chester Park, and hunting up 

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some friends in Dorchester, returning in early evening. 
Jerry seemed perfectly at home; perhaps he has been 
used to city life in Kentucky. The day was long and full 
of pleasant things, but the diary record was brief; for 
just this once we will confess we were tired. Secured the 
catechism and hairpin, and oh! we forgot, a bit of em- 
broidery we got at Whitney's, and mailed to a friend who 
asked us to do so if we "happened to be near there/' 
drove eighteen miles and made twelve calls, that was all. 

During the day we decided to stay over Sunday, as a 
cousin we wanted to see was coming. Jerry rested all 
day, and we did, except the writing of many letters, din- 
ing with a friend, and attending service at the only 
church we saw lighted on the Back Bay in the evening. 
We thought of many things to do and places to go to, 
and wondered how we should like to take a carriage jour- 
ney and spend all the nights in Boston. There would be 
no lack of pleasant driving, and if we missed the variety 
in. hotels, we could easily remedy that by going from one 
to another. Boston would supply that need for a while, 
and we are sure Jerry would be more than glad to find 
himself at Nims's in Mason street, day or night. But we 
had other things in view for this journey, and, the 
cousin's whereabouts being wrapped in mystery, we left 
Boston early Monday morning. 

Now, we will take you by transit, hardly excelled in 
rapidity by the feats of occultism, to Narragansett Pier, 
and while you are taking breath in our charming room in 
that vine-covered hotel at the jumping-off place, with 
the surf rolling up almost under the windows, we will 
just tell you a bit about the journey as we had it; driving 

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all day in the rain on Monday and enjoying it, making 
hasty doorstep calls, spending the night at Lake Massa- 
poag House in Sharon, and on through the Attleboros to 
Pawtucket the next day, dining Wednesday with friends 
in Providence, then on to East Greenwich for the night. 
A drive of twenty-one miles Thursday morning, and we 
are with you again at the Pier, where our first exclama- 
tion was, "Oh ! let's stay here !" We like the mountains, 
but the ocean is quite satisfying if we can have enough 
of it, and as our host said, here there is nothing between 
us and Europe, Asia and Africa. We wrote letters all the 
afternoon, with one eye on the surf, and the next morning 
we drove to Point Judith, where we investigated the 
wrecks, went to the top of the lighthouse, and were much 
interested in hearing all about the work at the life-saving 
station. We took a long walk, and visited the Casino in 
the afternoon. 

We were still enthusiastic about the Pier, but the next 
morning was so beautiful it seemed wise to enjoy it in 
Newport. The captain could not take our horse across 
from the Pier, and we drove twelve miles back to Wick- 
ford to take the ferryboat. It was quite cool, but with 
warm wraps it was just right for a brisk drive. We had 
time for dinner before going to the boat. The hour's sail 
was very delightful, and at half after two we were in 
Newport, with nothing to do but drive about the city 
until dark. We saw all there was to be seen, even to the 
hydrangea star described in the Transcript by "M. H." 
We did not know which was Vanderbilt's and which Oak 
Glen, but that mattered little to us, for to all intents and 
purposes they all belonged to us that bright afternoon, 

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and are still ours in memory. We fell into the grand 
procession of fine turnouts on the prescribed ocean drive, 
but the people generally did not look as if they were 
having a good time. They had a sort of "prescribed" 
look, except one young lady we met several times, 
perched in a high cart, with a bright-looking pug for 
company; she really looked as if she was enjoying her- 
self. 

The charm of Newport fled when we were inside the 
hotel. The fountain in the park below our window was 
very pretty, but it could not compete with our ocean view 
at the Pier, and we had to sit on the footboard of the bed, 
too, in order to see to read by the aspiring gaslight. 

We walked around the Old Mill and went into the 
Channing Church and then left Newport for Fall River. 
There we called on several friends, then inquired for 
some place to spend a night, on our way to Plymouth, 
and were directed to Assonet. We had never heard of 
Assonet before, but we did not mind our ignorance when 
the widow, who "puts up" people, told us the school com- 
mittee man where her daughter had gone to teach had 
never heard of it. Our good woman thought at first she 
could not take us, as she had been washing and was 
tired, but as there was no other place for us to go, she 
consented. When she saw our books, she asked if we 

were traveling for business or pleasure, and as F 

drove off to the stable she remarked on her ability; she 
thought a woman was pretty smart if she could "turn 
round." We had a very cosy time. People who always 
plan to have a first-class hotel lose many of the novel 
experiences which make a pleasant variety in a journey 

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It is interesting occasionally to hear the family particu- 
lars and be introduced to the pet dogs and cats, and walk 
round the kitchen and backyard, where the sunflowers 
and hollyhocks grow from oldtime habit, and not because 
of a fashion. 

The Samoset House at Plymouth seemed all the more 
luxurious after the modest comforts at Assonet. We 
"did" Plymouth once more, this time taking in the new 
monument, and having plenty of time, we drove down to 
Manomet Point for a night. The Point is quite a resort 
for artists, but as we have given up sketching, we did not 
delay there, but returned to Plymouth and on to Dux- 
bury. We did not ask Jerry to travel the extra miles off 
the main route to take in Brant Rock and Daniel Web- 
ster's old home, as this was our second drive in this 
vicinity, and rather than drive two miles to a hotel possi- 
bly open, we took up with the chances near by. We 
found oats at a grocery store, but it was too cold to 
camp ; indeed, we did not have one of our wayside camps 
during the entire journey. There was no hotel, no stable, 
no "put-up" place or available barn, but the grocer, 
appreciating our dilemma, said he could easily clear a 
stall back of his store, and while he was helping us un- 
harness, we saw a large house perched on a high bluff 
not far away. Although it was a private boarding-house 
we made bold to cross the fields, mount the many flights 
of steps and ask for dinner, which was willingly granted. 

You will surmise we are bound for Boston again, and 
will not be surprised to find us with friends on the Jeru- 
salem Road, after enjoying the beauties of this road from 

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Cohasset to Hingham, where we went for a handful of 
letters only equalled by that parcel at Providence. 

Oh, how cold it was the next day! The thought of 
Nantasket Beach made us shiver, and preferring to think 
of it as in "other days," we turned our faces inland and 
drove a pretty back way to South Hingham. Of course 
we could have driven right into Boston, but it was Satur- 
day, and we thought we would have a quiet Sunday 
somewhere and go into the city Monday. After pro- 
tracted consultation we agreed on a place, but when we 
got there there was no room for us, as a minstrel troupe 
had taken possession. Hotels four, eight and nine miles 
distant were suggested. In consideration of Jerry we 
chose the four miles' drive. We will not tell you the 
name of the town, suffice it to say we left immediately 
after breakfast. It was a beautiful morning — far too 
lovely to be spoiled by uncongenial surroundings. We 
intended to drive to the next town, where we had been 
told there was a hotel. We found none, however, but 
were assured there was one in the next. So we went on, 
like one in pursuit of the end of the rainbow, until the 
last man said he thought there was no hotel nearer than 
the Norfolk House! 

Here we were almost in Boston, Sunday, after all the 
miles we had driven to avoid it. "All's well that ends 
well/' however, and a little visit with the "Shaybacks" at 
home, not "in camp," could not have been on Monday, 
and before we reached the Norfolk House we were taken 
possession of for the night by a whole household of hos- 
pitable friends. 

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Monday morning we drove into the city proper, and 
hovered in its vicinity several days, calling on friends we 
did not see before and driving here and there, among 
other places to Middlesex Fells, so often spoken of. We 
ended our journey as we began it, searching for our cleri- 
cal cousin, but all in vain. We did see so many of our 
friends of the profession, however, from first to last, that 
privately we call it our "ministerial" journey. 

Everything must have an end, but we did wish we 
could go right on for another month. The foliage was 
gorgeous and the yellowish haze only made everything 
more dreamy and fascinating. We prolonged our 
pleasure by taking two days to drive home, straying a 
little from the old turnpike, and driving through Weston, 
spending the night in Framingham, and then on through 
Southboro to Northboro, Clinton and Lancaster to 
Leominster. The country was beautiful in contrast with 
flat, sandy Rhode Island. We gathered leaves and 
sumacs until our writing tablet and every available book 
and newspaper was packed, and then we put a great mass 
of sumacs in the "boot." Finally our enthusiasm over the 
beauties along the way reached such a height that we 
spread our map and traced out a glorious trip among the 
New Hampshire hills, and home over the Green Moun- 
tains, for next year. 

"Summer Gleanings" is now complete, and the last 
pages are fairly aglow with the autumn souvenirs of our 
sixteenth annual drive. 



136 



CHAPTER IX. 

BOSTON, WHITE MOUNTAINS AND VERMONT.— A SIX 
HUNDRED MILE DRIVE. 

In self-defence we must tell you something of our 
seventeenth annual "drive," for no one will believe we 
could have had a good time, "on account of the weather ;" 
and really it was one of our finest trips. We regret the 
sympathy, and pity even, that was wasted on us, and 
rejoice that now and then one declared, "Well, I will not 
worry about them, for somehow they always do have a 
good time, if it does rain." 

If two friends, with a comfortable phaeton and a good 
horse, exploring the country at will, gladly welcomed and 
served at hotels hungry for guests, with not a care 
beyond writing to one's friends, and free to read to one's 
heart's content, cannot have a good time, whatever the 
weather may be, what hope is there for them? 

Why has no one ever written up the bright side of dull 
weather ? The sun gets all the glory, and yet the moment 
he sends down his longed-for smiles, even after days of 
rain, over go the people to the other side of the car, the 
brakeman rushes to draw your shutter, the blinds in the 
parlor are closed, and the winking, blinking travelers on 
the highway sigh, "Oh, dear, that sun is blinding," and 
look eagerly for a cloud. Then, if the sun does shine 
many days without rain, just think of the discomfort and 
the perpetual fretting. Clouds of dust choke you, every- 
thing looks dry and worthless, the little brooks are mop- 

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ing along, or there is only a dry stony path that tells they 
once lived, and the roadsides look like dusty millers. 
Now, fancy a drive without the sunshine to blind your 
eyes, no dust (surely not, when the mud fairly clogs the 
wheels), every tree and shrub glistening and all the little 
mountain streams awakened to life and tearing along, 
crossing and recrossing your path like playful children; 
indeed, all Nature's face looking like that of a beautiful 
child just washed. Really, there is no comparison. 

Perhaps you are thinking that is a dull day drive. 
Now, how about a drive when it pours. Oh, that is 
lovely — so cosy! A waterproof and veil protect you, 
and the boot covers up all the bags and traps, and there 
is a real fascination in splashing recklessly through the 
mud, knowing you have only to say the word and you 
will come out spick and span in the morning. 

We have purposely put all the weather in one spot, like 
"Lord" Timothy Dexter's punctuation marks, and now 
you can sprinkle it in according to your recollection of 
the September days, and go on with us, ignoring the rain, 
as we did, excepting casual comments. 

Our journey was the fulfilment of the longing we felt 
for the mountains, when we were driving home from our 
Narragansett Pier and Newport trip one year ago. Per- 
haps you remember those hazy, soft-tinted days, the very 
last of September. The air was like summer, as we drove 
along through Framingham to Southboro, gathering 
those gorgeous sumacs by the wayside, and wishing we 
could go straight north for two weeks. 

The morning of Sept. 6th, 1888, was very bright, just 
the morning to start "straight north," but with our usual 

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aversion to direct routes we turned our faces towards 
Boston. We could not stop at Stow this time, for the old 
hotel, where we slept so sweetly our first night one year 
ago, is gone, and only ashes mark the spot. Waltham 
had a place for us, however. A cold wave came on during 
the night, and we shivered all the way from Waltham to 
Hull, except when we were near the warm hearts of our 
friends on the way. 

The ocean looked cold, but nothing could mar that 
quiet drive of five miles on Nantasket Beach just before 
sunset. We were lifted far above physical conditions. 
We were just in season to join in the last supper at The 
Pemberton, and share in the closing up. We were about 
the last of the lingering guests to take leave in the morn- 
ing, after dreaming of driving through snowdrifts ten 
feet deep, and wondering if we should enjoy the moun- 
tains as well as we had fancied. The weather, however, 
changed greatly before noon, and it was very sultry by 
the time we reached Boston. Prudence prompted us, 
nevertheless, to add to our outfit, against another cold 
wave. We found all we wanted except wristers. Ask- 
ing for them that sultry afternoon produced such an 
effect that we casually remarked, to prove our sanity, 
that we did not wish them to wear that day. 

Night found us at Lexington, pleading for shelter at 
the Massachusetts House. Darkness, rain and importu- 
nity touched the heart of the proprietor, and he took us 
into the great hall, which serves for parlor as well, saying 
all the time he did not know what he should do with us. 
We wanted to stay there, because we do not often have 
a chance to stay in a house that has traveled. The signs 

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are over the doors just as when it stood on the Centen- 
nial grounds, and many things seem quite natural, 
although we did not chance to be among the dis- 
tinguished guests entertained under its roof when in 
Philadelphia. 

Our stay there was made very pleasant by a lady who 
gave us interesting accounts of her journeys by carriage 
with "Gail Hamilton" and her sister. 

Here ended our one hundred miles preliminary, and 
bright and early Monday morning we were off for the 
mountains. The day was just right for a wayside camp, 
and just at the right time we came to a pretty pine grove, 
with seats under the trees. We asked a bright young 
woman in the yard opposite if we could camp there, and 
were given full liberty. She said Jerry might as well be 
put into the barn, then helped unharness and gave him 
some hay. Jerry was happy. 

He does not have hay — which is his "soup," I suppose 
— when he camps. We went to the grove with our little 
pail filled with delicious milk, and a comfortable seat 
supplied by our hospitable hostess. When we went to 
pay our bill, everything was refused but our thanks. We 
said then, "If you ever come to Leominster you must let 
us do something for you." 

"Oh, do you live in Leominster? Do you know ?" 

"Oh, yes, she is in our Sunday-school class." 

This is only one of the many pleasant incidents of our 
wanderings. 

We spent that night at Haverhill and had one more 
camp, our last for the trip, this time on the warm side of 
a deserted barn. 

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Two and a half days' driving up hill and down to 
Dover, and over a good road through Rochester and 
Farmington, brought us to Alton Bay, where we all went 
on board the Mt. Washington for the sail of thirty miles 
to Centre Harbor. Jerry was tied in the bow, and as we 
got under way the wind was so strong we should have 
had to wrap him up in our shawls and waterproofs if the 
captain had not invited him inside. We braved it on 
deck, for Lake Winnipiseogee is too pretty to lose. 

We "did" Centre Harbor some years ago, so drove on 
directly we landed. At Moultonboro we stopped to 
make some inquiries, and while waiting, the clouds grew 
very mysterious, looking as if a cyclone or something 
was at hand, and we decided to spend the night there. 
The people were looking anxiously at the angry sky ; and 
the Cleveland flag was hastily taken down ; but no sooner 
were we and the flag under cover than the sun came out 
bright, dispelling the blackness. We wished we had gone 
on as we intended, and looked enviously on the Harrison 
flag, which waved triumphantly, not afraid of a little 
cloud. 

We saw a large trunk by the roadside as we drove 
through the woods next morning. We gave all sorts of 
explanations for a good-looking trunk being left in such 
an out-of-the-way place, but, not being "reporters," we 
did not "investigate" or "interview," but dismissed the 
matter with, "Why, probably it was left there for the 
stage." We do not feel quite satisfied yet, for why any 
one should carry a trunk half a mile to take a stage when 
we had no reason to think there was any stage to take, 
is still a mystery. 

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14000 MILES 

We got all over our disappointment at stopping early 
for the cloud, for the drive, which was so lovely that 
bright morning, would have been cold and cheerless the 
night before. It seemed as if we went on all sides of 
Chocorua, with its white peak and pretty lake at the base. 
Why has somebody said — 

"Tired Chocorua, looking down wistfully into 
A land in which it seemed always afternoon." 

One might spend a whole summer amid the charming 
surroundings of North Conway, but we had only a night 
to spare. There were many transient people about, as 
is usual in the autumn. The summer guests had 
departed, and now some of the stayers-at-home were 
having a respite. We wished all the tired people could 
try the experience of an old lady there, who said she 
"could not make it seem right to be just going to her 
meals and doing nothing about it." 

Oh, how lovely that morning at North Conway ! This 
was the day we were to drive up Crawford Notch; and 
what about all the prophecies of our seashore friends? 
Where were the snowdrifts we dreamed of? The air was 
so soft we put aside all wraps, and, as we leisurely drove 
along the bright, woodsy road, I wonder how many 
times we exclaimed, "This is heavenly!" We fairly 
drank in the sunshine, and fortunately, for it was the last 
we had for a full week. 

We dined at the hotel in Bartlett, and strolled about 
the railway station near by, so tempting to travelers, hav- 
ing a pretty waiting-room like a summer parlor, with its 
straw matting and wicker furniture. We took our time 

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14000 MILES 

so leisurely that we found we could not get to the Craw- 
ford House in season to walk up Mt. Willard, as we had 
planned, so stopped at the old Willey House, this side. 
It was quite too lovely to stay indoors, and, after we had 
taken possession of the house, being the only guests, we 
took the horn our landlady used to call the man to take 
care of Jerry, and went down the road to try the echo, as 
she directed us. It was very distinct, and after we got 
used to making such a big noise in the presence of those 
majestic mountains, we rather liked it. We gathered a 
few tiny ferns for our diaries, and took quite a walk 
towards the Notch, then came "home," for so it seemed. 
We had chosen a corner room in full view of Mt^ 
Webster, Willey Mountain, and the road over which we 
had driven, and where the moon would shine in at night, 
and the sun ought to look in upon us in the morning. 
The moon was faithful, but the sun forgot us and the 
mountains were veiled in mists. 

Will there ever be another Sunday so long, and that 
we could wish many times longer? We had the warm 
parlor to ourselves and just reveled in a feast of reading, 
watching the fluffy bits of mist playing about Mt. 
Webster, between the lines. Just fancy reading "Robert 
Elsmere" four hours on a stretch, without fatigue, so 
peaceful was it away from the world among the moun- 
tains. After dinner we drove to the Crawford to mail a 
letter and back to the Willey, having enjoyed once more 
in the short one hour and a half one of the grandest 
points of the whole mountain region, the White Moun- 
tain Notch. We were now fresh for another long session 
with Robert and Catherine. It was raining again, and 

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steadily increased through the night until it seemed as if 
there would not be a bridge left of the many we had 
crossed the day before. 

We were interested in the fate of the little bridges, for 
we were to retrace our steps, seventeen or eighteen miles, 
to Glen station. We had driven up through the Notch 
because — we wanted to ; and we were going back all this 
distance because we wanted to go on the Glen side of the 
mountains; for with all our driving, we had never been 
there. What a change from the drive up on Saturday! 
How lively the streams; and the little cascades were 
almost endless in number. 

The foliage looked brighter, too. The roads were 
washed, but the bridges all stood. We dined once more 
at Bartlett, then on to Jackson via Glen Station, We 
had not thought of Jackson as so cosily tucked in among 
the mountains. 

Again we were the only guests at the hotel, and the 
stillness here was so overpowering, that it required more 
courage to speak above a whisper in the great empty 
dining-room than it did to "toot" the horn in Willey 
Notch. 

We usually order our horse at nine, but when it pours, 
as it did at Jackson, we frequently dine early and take the 
whole drive in the afternoon. These rainy stop-overs 
are among the pleasant features of our journeys. Who 
cannot appreciate a long morning to read or write, with 
conscience clear, however busy people may be about you, 
having literally "nothing else to do"? It does not seem 
to trouble us as it did the old lady at North Conway. It 
was cool in our room, and we took our books down stairs, 

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14000 MILES 

casually remarking to the clerk, who apparently had 
nothing to do but wait upon us, that we had been looking 
for the cheery open fire we saw in the reception room the 
evening before. He took our modest hint, and very soon 
came to the parlor, saying we would find it more com- 
fortable in the other room, where there was a fire. 

Early in the afternoon we were off, full of anticipation 
of a new drive, and by many the drive from Jackson to 
Gorham through Pinkham Notch and by the Glen House 
is considered the finest of all. The foliage was certainly 
the brightest and the mud the deepest of the whole trip, 
and we enjoyed every inch of the twenty miles. We fully 
absorbed all the beauty of the misty phases of the moun- 
tains, and did not reject anything, thinking instead how 
we would some time reverse things and drive from 
Gorham to Jackson on a pleasant day. 

Another famed drive is the one from Gorham to Jeffer- 
son. Part of this was new to us, too, and we must 
confess that the "misty phases" were too much for our 
pleasure that time. Not a glimpse of the peaks of the 
Presidential range was to be had all that morning. Even 
the Randolph Hills were partly shrouded in mists. We 
dined at Crawford's at Jefferson Highlands, and one of 
the guests said Mr. Crawford had promised a clear sun- 
set, but what his promise was based on we could not 
imagine. 

It does not seem as if anything could entirely spoil the 
drive from the Highlands to the Waumbek at Jefferson, 
and from Jefferson to Lancaster the views are wonder- 
fully beautiful. The clouds relented a little as we slowly 
climbed the hills, and just as we reached the highest 

145 

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14000 MILES 

point we turned back once more for a last look at the 
entire White Mountain range, and we had a glimpse of 
the peak of Mt. Washington for the first time since the 
morning we left North Conway. 

A moment more, and the Summit House glistened in 
sunlight, a stray ray from behind a cloud. As we began 
to descend, what a change of scene ! Sun-glinted Wash- 
ington was out of sight behind the hill, and before us 
were threatening clouds, black as midnight, and the 
mountains of northern New Hampshire looked almost 
purple. The sky foreboded a tempest rather than Mr. 
Crawford's promised sunset, but while we were thinking 
of it there was a marvelous change. Color mingled with 
the blackness, and as we were going down the last steep 
hill into Lancaster, there was one of the most gorgeous 
sunset views we ever witnessed. We drove slowly 
through the broad, level streets to the outer limit of the 
town, and then turned back, but did not go to the hotel 
until his majesty dropped in full glory below the horizon. 

The sun set that night for the rest of the week, and the 
clouds were on hand again in the morning. We went to 
Lancaster just for a look towards Dixville, but we made 
this our turning-point. The drive to Whitefield is very 
like the one just described, only reversed. There were 
no sun-glints this time, but memory could furnish all the 
clouds refused to reveal, for that ride was indelibly 
photographed on our minds. 

From Whitefield we drove to Franconia, and as we 
went through Bethlehem street we thought it seemed 
pleasanter than ever before. The gray shades were 
becoming, somehow. 

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14000 MILES 

Having* driven through Franconia Notch five times 
and seen the "boulder" before and after its fall, we did 
not fret about what the weather might be this time. We 
had been through in rain and sunshine, in perfect, gray, 
and yellow days, and never failed to find it charming. 
This time it poured in torrents. We dined at the Flume 
House, and watched those who were "doing* ' the Notch 
for the first time, and almost envied them as they gayly 
donned their waterproofs and were off for the Pool and 
Flume. One party declared they had laughed more than 
if it had been pleasant, and all in spite of that ruined 
Derby, too, which the gentleman of the party said he had 
just got new in Boston, and intended to wear all winter. 
They had passed us in the Notch in an open wagon, with 
the rain pelting their heads. 

The drive to Campton that afternoon was one of those 
"cosy" drives. It never rained faster, and the roads were 
like rivers. Memory was busy, for it is one of the love- 
liest drives in the mountains. It was dark when we 
reached Sanborn's, at West Campton, but it is always 
cheery there, and the house looked as lively as in 
summer. 

One might think we had had enough of mountains and 
mists by this time, but we were not yet satisfied, and 
having plenty of time, we turned north again, just before 
reaching Plymouth, with Moosilauke and the Green 
Mountains in mind. A happy thought prompted us to 
ask for dinner at Daisy Cottage in Quincy, and unex- 
pectedly we met there one of the party who braved Fran- 
conia Notch in winter a few years ago, and who told the 
tale of their joys and sorrows in the Transcript. We 

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mailed our cards to the friends whose house was closed, 
and then on to Warren, near Moosilauke. We expe- 
rienced just a shade of depression here, perhaps because 
the hotel, which had been full of guests all summer, was 
now empty and cold, or possibly the sunshine we 
absorbed at North Conway — "canned" sunshine, Mr. 
Shayback calls it — was giving out. Be that as it may, 
our enthusiasm was not up to the point of climbing a 
mountain to see what we had seen for eight successive 
days, — peaks shrouded in white clouds. The sun did 
shine in the early morning; but it takes time to clear the 
mountains, and the wind blew such a gale we actually 
feared we might be blown off the "ridge" on Moosilauke 
if we did go up. We waited and watched the weather, 
finished "Robert Elsmere," and began for a second 
reading, and after dinner gave up the ascent. By night 
we were reconciled, for we had the most charming drive 
of twenty miles to Bradford, Vt., crossing the Connecti- 
cut at Haverhill, and saying good-by to New Hampshire 
and its misty mountains. 

A new kind of weather was on hand next morning, 
strangely like that we have become accustomed to, but 
not so hopeless. 

These dense fogs along the Connecticut in September 
are the salvation of vegetation from frosts, we were told, 
but they are fatal to views. We drove above and away 
from the fog, however, on our way over the hills to West 
Fairlee, but it rested in the valley until nearly noon. It 
was encouraging to learn that fair weather always fol- 
lowed. 

A "bridge up" sent us a little way round, but we 

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reached West Fairlee just at dinner time, and while 
Jerry was at the blacksmith's we strolled about the 
village with friends. The afternoon drive to Norwich on 
the Connecticut — a pretty, old university town — was 
very pleasant. We were directed to the hotel, but when 
a lady answered the door bell, we thought we must have 
made a mistake, and were asking hospitality at a private 
mansion. There was no sign; the yard was full of 
flowers, and the big square parlor, with the fire crackling 
under the high old mantel, the fan-decorated music-room 
through the portieres — everything, in fact, betokened a 
home. And such in truth it was, only, having been a 
hotel, transients were still accommodated there, as there 
was no other place in Norwich. When the very gallant 
colored boy ushered us into a room the size of the parlor 
below, with all the homey touches, we felt really like 
company. The delicious supper, well served from the 
daintiest of dishes, confirmed the company feeling. 

We started out in the densest of fogs from our luxu- 
rious quarters in Norwich, but soon left it behind, and 
the drive along White River was very lovely. We had 
to dine at a "putting-up" place, with another fellow- 
traveler, in a kitchen alive with flies ; and at Bridgewater, 
where we went for the night, we were received by a 
woman with mop and pail in hand — a little "come down" 
after our fine appointments. We must not forget our 
pleasant hour in Woodstock that afternoon. We drove 
through its pretty streets, called on friends, and took a 
look at the fair grounds, for everybody was "going to the 
fair." 

Fine appointments are not essential to comfort, and 

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when we were all fixed in our little room, with a good 
book, waiting once more for it to simply rain, not pour, 
we were just as happy as at Norwich. After dinner we 
challenged the weather, and set forth for Ludlow. We 
overtook the little Italian pedler, with what looked like a 
feather bed on his back, who had sat at table with us, and 
was now ploughing his way through the mud. His face 
was wreathed in the most extravagant smiles in response 
to our greeting. The rain had spent itself, and we 
enjoyed walking down the mountain as we went through 
Plymouth. It seemed an unusual mountain, for there 
was no "up" to it, but the "down" was decidedly percep- 
tible. 

Ludlow was as homelike as ever, and the Notch drive 
on the way to Chester as interesting. The foliage, 
usually so brilliant at that season, had changed scarcely 
at all; only a touch of color now and then, but the 
streams were all up to danger point. 

Bellows Falls was unusually attractive. We drove 
down the river, then crossed to Walpole, N. H., for the 
night. 

The washouts here were quite serious, and we 
repented leaving Vermont to go zigzagging on cross- 
roads and roundabout ways in New Hampshire. I wish 
we had counted the guideboards we saw that day that 
said, "Keene eleven miles." We had Brattleboro in mind, 
but after making some inquiries at Spofford Lake, we 
decided to put Brattleboro out of mind and Keene guide- 
boards out of sight, and go to Northfield. We dined that 
day in a neat little hotel in the smallest town imaginable, 
and expected country accommodations at Northfield, but 

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some of the Moody Institute young ladies directed us to 
the new hotel "everybody was talking about." What a 
surprise to find ourselves in an elegantly furnished hotel 
on a high hill, with a commanding view. The steam heat 
and general air of comfort and luxury were truly 
delightful. 

Another mountain was in our way, and the long, slow 
climb seemed endless. Near the summit we saw an old 
lady who said she had lived there twelve years, and 
added that it was pretty lonesome at the time of the big 
snowstorm last winter, for the road was not broken out 
for a week. We think we prefer a blockade at Southboro, 
in a warm car, with plenty of company. 

A gentleman, speaking of an extended tour by 
carriage some years ago, said he thought Erving, Mass., 
the most forlorn place he was ever in. We fully assent. 
We were cold after coming over the mountain, and that 
dreary parlor, without a spark of fire or anything to 
make one in, and a broken window, was the climax of 
cheerlessness. The dinner was very good, but the wait- 
ing was dreary. We walked to the railway station, but 
that was no better, so we went to the stable for our 
extra wraps, and then tried to forget the dreary room 
and lose consciousness in a book. This was not a good 
preparation for a long drive, but a little hail flurry as we 
drove through Athol took some of the chill out of the air, 
and the drive to Petersham was more comfortable. At 
the little hotel in that airy town, fires were built for us up 
and down stairs, and Erving was forgotten. 

And now comes our last day's drive, for although 
Jerry had traveled already over six hundred miles on this 

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trip, he was fully equal to the thirty miles from Peters- 
ham to Leominster. We forgot to ask to have the 
phaeton washed, and it looked so bad we stopped at a 
watering-trough in the outskirts of the town and washed 
off the shields with newspapers. After this we felt so 
respectable and self-confident that we did not heed our 
ways, until a familiar landmark in the wrong direction 
brought us to the certain knowledge that we were 
decidedly off our road. 

We saw a young man and he knew we were wrong, but 
that was all he knew about it, so we turned back and 
presently came across an older and wiser man, who said, 
pityingly, "Oh, you are wrong, but if you will follow me, 
I will start you right." We meekly followed for a mile 
and a half perhaps, but it seemed twice that, then he 
stopped and directed us to Princeton. We had no more 
difficulty, but were so late at the Prospect House that a 
special lunch was prepared for us, dinner being over. 

It grew very cold, and was dark before we got home, 
but Jerry knew where he was going and lost no time. 
Although he had been through about ninety towns, and 
been cared for at over thirty different hotels, he had not 
forgotten Leominster and his own stall. Do you suppose 
he remembers, too, his old Kentucky home? 



152 



V 



CHAPTER X. 

BY PHAETON TO CANADA — NOTES OF A SEVEN HUNDRED 
MILES TRIP. 

Where shall we begin to tell you about our very best 
journey? Perhaps the beginning is a good starting point, 
but we must make long leaps somewhere or the story 
will be as long as the journey. We have taken a great 
many phaeton trips — we think we will not say how 
many much longer — but we will say softly to you that 
two more will make twenty. They are never planned 
beforehand, so of course we did not know when we 
started off on the morning of July 8th that we were 
going to "skip to Canada." When the daily letters 
began to appear with little pink stamps on them, some 
were so unkind as to doubt our veracity, and declare a 
solemn belief that we meant to go there all the time, for 
all we said we really did not know where we would go 
after we got to Fitchburg. If it was in our inner mind, 
the idea never found expression until we had that chance 
conversation at Burlington, a full week after we left 
home. 

That week alone would have been a fair summer "out- 
ing." The first one hundred miles was along a lovely, 
woodsy road, taking us through Winchendon, Fitz- 
william, Keene, Walpole, Bellows Falls and Chester to 
Ludlow. The gap between Chester and Ludlow would 
be a charming daily drive in midsummer. From Ludlow 
the fates led us over Mt. Holly to Rutland, where we 

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have been so many times and then seemed to leave us 
entirely, unless the faint whisperings that we might go 
to Benson to make a wedding call beforehand, and then 
decide on some route north, was intended for a timely 
hint. 

Whatever sent us or drew us there, we were glad we 
went, and once there talking it all over with friends, who 
knew how to avoid the worst of the clay roads, it seemed 
the most natural thing in the world to go right on to 
Burlington, spending Sunday so restfully at Middlebury. 
Had we doubted our course we should have been 
reassured, when we learned from the cousin whose aching 
head was cured by the sudden shock of our appearance, 
that we were just in season for the commencement exer- 
cises that would make of a mutual cousin a full-fledged 
M. D. The evening at the lovely Opera House was a 
pleasant incident. 

Here again we came to a standstill, without a whis- 
pering, even. As we were "doing" Burlington the next 
day, with cousin number one for a guide (cousin number 
two took early flight for home, and missed the surprise 
we planned for him), visiting the hospital, Ethan Allen's 
monument, and so on, we talked one minute of crossing 
Lake Champlain, and going to Au Sable Chasm, and the 
next of taking the boat to Plattsburg, then driving north. 
We did get so far as to think of the possibility of leaving 
Jerry at Rouse's Point, and taking a little trip to Montreal 
and down the St. Lawrence to call on a friend who said 
to us at her wedding, "You must drive up to see me next 
summer." But we did not think to explore the Canadian 
wilds with no other protector than Jerry; for we had 

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strange ideas of that country. We went to the different 
boat-landings and made all sorts of inquiries; then 
returned to the hotel for dinner and decision on some- 
thing. 

The city was so full of M. D.'s and their friends that 
the washing of our phaeton had been neglected, and as 
the proprietor stood at the door when we; drove to the 
hotel, we thought we would appeal to his authority in 
the matter. "Why," he said, "are you driving your- 
selves; where are you going? Come right into the office 
and let me plan a trip for you." We took our map and 
followed along, as he mentioned point after point in 
northern Vermont where we would find comfortable 
hotels; and he seemed to know so much of the country 
about that we asked finally how it would be driving in 
Canada? Would it be safe for us? "Safe! You can go 
just as well as not. You can drive after dark or any time 
— nicest people in the world — do anything for you." 
Then he began again with a Canadian route via St. Ar- 
mand, St. John, St. Cesaire, St. Hilaire, and we began to 
think the country was full of saints instead of sinners as 
we had fancied. We ran our finger along the map as he 
glibly spoke these strange-sounding names and found he 
was headed straight for Berthier, the very place we 
wanted to go to. We stopped him long enough to ask 
how far from St. Hilaire to Berthier. 

"Berthier! Drive to Berthier! Why, bless me, your 
horse would die of old age before you got home !" 

Evidently he had reached his limits. Berthier was 
beyond him. We, however, could see no obstacles on our 
map, and it was only "an inch and a half" farther (to be 

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sure, our map was a very small one), and Jerry is young 
and strong — why not try it, any way? 

We ordered Jerry sent round at three o'clock, and in 
the meantime we dined, and went with our helpful friend 
to the Custom House, as we could not drive into Canada 
without being "bonded." Whatever sort of an operation 
this might be, we ascertained it could not be effected 
until we got to St. Albans. 

At three Jerry appeared, with the phaeton still 
unwashed and another "M. D." excuse. We never knew 
it took so many people to take care of doctors. 

We went first to see the cousin who had piloted us to 
see the wharves and stations, to tell her the labor was all 
lost, for we were going to Canada. We then went to the 
post office, and got a letter containing information of 
special interest to us just then ; for while we had been 
driving leisurely up through Vermont, friends from 
Boston had whizzed past us by rail, and were already at 
Berthier. 

We drove only fourteen miles that afternoon, and did 
not unpack until very late at the little hotel under a high 
bluff on one side, and over the rocky Lamoille River on 
the other, for there was a heavy thunder shower and we 
inclined to wait. The next morning we proceeded to 
St. Albans to get "bonded." It proved a very simple 
process. One went into the custom house and the other 
sat reading in the phaeton. Presently three men came 
out and apparently "took the measure" of Jerry. He only 
was of any consequence evidently. The occupant of the 
phaeton was ignored, or trusted. A little more time 

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14000 MILES 

elapsed, and we were "bonded" at a cost of twenty-five 
cents, and all right for Canada. We wonder if the papers 
are good for another trip, for they have not been called 
for yet. 

We crossed the invisible line that afternoon, and never 
knew just where the deed was done, but when we were 
directed to a little one-story house, well guarded by 
jabbering Frenchmen, as the hotel in St. Armand, we 
realized we were out of the States. We felt like 
intruders on a private family, outside, but once inside we 
became members. All seemed interested in our welfare, 
and asked about our "papers," advising us to have them 
looked at, as in case we had any difficulty farther on we 
would have to return there. 

There was some delay in giving us a room, for it had 
been cleared ready for the paperhanger, and the bed had 
to be set up, etc. Our hostess seemed so sorry to put us 
into such a forlorn place, and the rolls of paper in the 
closet looked so tempting, we had half a mind to surprise 
her by saying we would stop over a day and hang it for 
her. We gave that up, however, but once in our room 
we had to "stop over" till morning, for two men occupied 
the room adjoining — our only exit. If the house was 
small, the funnel-holes were large, and we were lulled to 
sleep by the murmuring of voices in the room below us. 
We caught the words "drivin'," "St. John" and "kind o' 
pleasant," and felt as if we were not forgotten. 

Our interview with the officer was very reassuring. He 
said no one would molest us unless it was some mean 
person who might think, "There's a Yankee 'rig* !" That 

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did not frighten us, for we never come across any mean 
people in our travels, and then a clear conscience in this 
case gave confidence, for we surely did not wish to part 
with Jerry; and trading horses seemed to be the only 
thing to be suspected of. 

We found a pretty woody camp that first noon, quite 
Vermontish, but for the remainder of our two weeks' 
sojourn in Canada it would have been like camping on a 
base-ball ground. We needed no "line" to make us 
realize we were in a different country. No windings and 
twistings among the hills, but long stretches of straight 
level roads, clayey and grassgrown, sometimes good, but 
oftener bad, especially after a rain, when the clay, grass 
and weeds two or three feet in length stuck to the wheels, 
until we looked as if equipped for a burlesque Fourth of 
July procession. 

After leaving St. Armand, to find an English-speaking 
person was the exception, and as English is the only 
language we have mastered, our funny experiences 
began. If we wanted a direction, we named the place 
desired, then pointed with an interrogatory expression 
on the face. If we wanted the phaeton washed and axles 
oiled, we showed the hostler the vehicle with a few ges- 
ticulations. The oiling was generally attended to, but 
the clay coating of the wheels was evidently considered 
our private property, and it was rarely molested. 

At the larger hotels we usually found some one who 
could understand a little English, but in one small village 
we began to think we should have to spend the night in 
the phaeton, for we could not find anything that looked 

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like a hotel, or any one who could understand we wanted 
one. After going to the telegraph office, a store, and in 
despair, attacking a man sawing wood — most hopeless 
of all, with his senseless grin — we found two or three 
boys, and between them we were directed to a little 
house we saw as we drove into the village, with the 
inevitable faded sign, and thanked fortune we had not to 
stay there. "Well, you wanted to drive to Canada, so 
you may go and see what you can do while I stay with 
Jerry" (the most unkind word on the trip). With 
feigned courage the threshold of the wee hotel was 
crossed. In Canada we usually enter by the bar-room, 
and those we saw had an air of great respectability and 
were frequently tended by women. All the doleful mis- 
givings were dispelled the moment we entered this tiny 
bar-room and glanced through the house, for unparal- 
leled neatness reigned there. Three persons were sent 
for before our wants were comprehended. The bright- 
faced girl from the kitchen proved an angel in disguise, 
for she could speak a very little English, although she 
said she did not have much "practix." A gem of a boy 
took Jerry, and in half an hour we were as much at home 
as in our own parlor. We were shown to a little room 
with one French window high up, from which we 
watched the Montreal steamer as it glided by on the 
Richelieu in the night. The little parlor was opened for 
us; it was hardly larger than a good-sized closet, but 
radiant with its bright tapestry carpet, Nottingham cur- 
tains and gay table-cover. There was a lounge in one 
corner and a rocking-chair before the large window, 

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thrown open like a door, from which we looked out upon 
a tiny garden in "rounds" and "diamonds," full of blos- 
soms, and not a weed. This was like a bit of paradise, 
and we now thanked fortune we were there. Our supper 
would make one wish always for Canadian cooking. We 
left with regret and were very glad to stop there again a 
week later, on our return trip. We were welcomed like 
old friends, and the changes we had made in the arrange- 
ment of furniture had been accepted. 

At another much larger hotel we were under great 
obligations to a Montreal traveling merchant, who 
received us, answered all our questions about mails and 
routes, and gave our orders for supper and breakfast. 
He spoke English well, only he did say several times he 
would not "advertise" us to go a certain route, as it 
would be out of our way. 

We dined at the Iroquois, on the "mountain," the 
resort of Canada. It is a large English hotel with all the 
appointments, and a pretty lake is seen a little farther up 
the mountain, through the woods. We illustrated the 
Canada Mountains we saw, to a friend in New Hamp- 
shire, by placing" balls of lamp-wicking on her table; they 
have no foothills and look like excrescences. 

One night in quite a large hotel, we had no fastening 
on our door. We were assured we were perfectly safe, 
but our room could be changed if we wished. We did 
not like to distrust such hospitality as we had met con- 
tinually in Canada, so we kept our room, but, lest the 
wind should blow the door open, we tilted a rocking- 
chair against it, with a bag balanced on one corner, and 
so arranged the lunch basket, with the tin cups attached, 

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that if the door opened a half-inch the whole arrange- 
ment would have fallen with a crash, and everybody else 
would have been frightened if we were not. 

The last forty miles to Sorel, where we crossed the 
St. Lawrence to Berthier, we drove close by the river 
Richelieu. We had left Montreal twenty miles to our 
left, as we were bound to a point fifty miles farther north. 
There were villages all along on either side of the river, 
the larger ones marked by the cathedrals, whose 
roofs and spires are dazzlingly bright with the tin cover- 
ing, which does not change in the Canadian atmosphere. 
In the smaller villages we saw many little "shrines" 
along the wayside; sometimes a tiny enclosure in the 
corner of a field, with a cross ten or twelve feet high, and 
a weather-beaten image nailed to it ; and again a smaller 
and ruder affair. Life in all the little villages seemed 
very leisurely; no rush or luxury, save of the camping- 
out style. The little houses were very like the rough 
cottages we find by lakes and ponds and at the seashore. 
We were charmed by the French windows, which open 
to all the light and air there is. The living-room was, 
without exception, spotlessly neat, and almost invariably 
furnished with a highly polished range, which would put 
to shame many we see in the States; and frequently a 
bed with a bright patched quilt in one corner. The little 
yards and the space under the piazza, which is usually 
three or four feet from the ground, were swept like a 
parlor. Touches of color and curtains of lace reveal a 
love of the beautiful. The men in the field often had 
wisps of red or white around their big straw hats, but 
the women wore theirs without ornamentation. We saw 

161 

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them loading hay and digging in the field ; those at home 
were spinning by the door. If we came across a group 
of men "loafing," they would cease their jabbering, raise 
their hats and stand in silence while we passed. We 
missed these little attentions when we got back to the 
States. 

By the time we reached Sorel we felt quite at home in 
Canada. We found there a mixture of nationalities. The 
host of the Brunswick, where we stopped for dinner and 
to wait two or three hours for the boat to Berthier, was a 
native of the States, and we were well cared for. We 
were well entertained while waiting, for it was market- 
day, and men and women were standing by their carts, 
arms akimbo, as they traded their vegetables for straw 
hats and loaves of bread — so large, it took two to carry 
them off. We had been meeting them all along, the 
women and children usually sitting on the floor of the 
rude carts, with their purchases packed about them. 

At four o'clock Jerry was driven to the door in visiting 
trim, well groomed, and the phaeton washed. We went 
to the boat, and there for the first time we thought we 
had encountered that "mean person," attracted by our 
"Yankee rig," for a fellow stepped up where we stood by 
Jerry in the bow of the boat, as he was a little uneasy, 
and began to talk about "trading horses." The young 
woman who had him in charge soon called him away, 
however, and we heard no more from him. 

The sail of nearly an hour among the islands, which at 
this point in the St. Lawrence begin to be quite 
numerous, was very pleasant, and when we came in 
sight of Berthier, marked by its twin shining spires, we 

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thought it the prettiest village we had seen in Canada. 
The main street is alongside the river, and as we stood 

on the deck, we caught sight of Mr. and Ruthie 

walking down street, and waved a salute with our hand- 
kerchiefs. In a few moments more we landed, and perch- 
ing Ruthie on the top of our bags, we drove back to a 
charming home, walking in upon our somewhat sur- 
prised friends as if it was an every-day occurrence. 

Rowing is the thing to do there, and we had a feast of 
it, exploring the "Little Rivers" with so many unex- 
pected turns. Then too, of course, we rowed out to take 
the wake of the big boats, all of which recalled vividly 
gala times farther up the river, in days before carriage 
journeys were dreamed of even. 

When we at last faced about and said good-by to our 
friends, we realized we were a long way from home. We 
knew now what was before us; indeed, could trace the 
way in mind way back to the State line, and then the 
length of Vermont or New Hampshire, as the case might 
be. At all events we must take in the Shayback camp 
on Lake Memphremagog before we left Canada, and as a 
direct course promised to take us over hills too large to 
illustrate by lamp-wicking, we followed the Richelieu 
again, revisited the Saints Hilaire and Cesaire, and 
turned east farther south. Our hosts along the way who 
had directed us to Berthier, were now confirmed in their 
belief that "we could go anywhere." When we turned 
east, after leaving St. Cesaire, we felt we were going 
among strangers once more, so we prepared ourselves by 
stopping in a stumpy land, uninhabited even by beasts, 
and blacking our boots by the wayside. 

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We drove over a mountain that was a mountain before 
we reached the level of Lake Memphremagog. We had 
been told we could save quite a distance by going to 
Tuck's Landing, where we could be taken across to 
Georgeville, instead of driving to Newport. We went by 
faith altogether, having no idea what sort of a raft we 
should find ; we only knew if it was not there we were to 
signal for it. 

As we slowly picked our way down the last steep pitch, 
we saw something coming towards the landing. It 
moved so slowly we could only tell which way it was 
going by the silver trail which we traced back to George- 
ville. We reached the landing just in season to go back 
on its last regular trip for the night, and were greatly 
interested in this new, but not rapid transit. Jerry was 
impressed with the strangeness, but is very sensible and 
never forgets himself. We think he would really have 
enjoyed the trip had it not been for the continual 
snapping of a whip as a sort of mental incentive to the 
two horses, or outlines of horses, which revolved very 
slowly around a pole, thereby turning a wheel which 
occasioned the silent trail that indicated we moved. A 
man, a boy, and a girl alternated in using the incentive 
which was absolutely essential to progress, and we 
chatted with them by turn, recalling to mind the points 
on the lake, and hearing of the drowning men rescued by 
this propeller. 

The Camperdown, that charming old inn at George- 
ville, has been supplanted by a hotel so large no one 
wants it, and its doors were closed. We were directed to 
a new boarding-house standing very high, where we 

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were soon quite settled in an upper front room with two 
French windows, one opening on a piazza and the other 
on a charming little balcony, with the lake before us in all 
its beauty. This was to be our home for several days; 
of course our friends wanted to know how we got there, 
and when we told them how we crossed the lake, they 
exclaimed, "Oh ! you came on the hay-eater !" The "hay- 
eater !" Well-named, surely. Late in the evening, as we 
were watching the lake bathed in moonlight, we saw 
again that silver trail, and knew the hay-eater must have 
been signalled. Morning, noon and night those outlines 
of horses walked their weary round, and the hay-eater 
faithfully performed its work of helpfulness. 

It is a mile from the village to the Shayback camp, and 
before walking over, we went down to the wharf to see 
the Lady come in — one of the things to do in George- 
ville. We were at once recognized by one of the 
campers who had just rowed over, and who invited us 
to go back with them in the boat. They had come over 
for three friends, and as the gentleman only was 
there, we were substituted for his two ladies, and 
we did not feel out of the family, as we soon learned 
he was a relative, dating back to the Mayflower. 
Mrs. Shayback did not quite take in the situation when 
we presented ourselves, but she is equal to any emer- 
gency, and soon recovered from her surprise. 

How can we condense into the limits of the Transcript 
the delights of Camp-by-the-Cliff, when we could easily 
fill a volume ! Twelve years' experience on Lake Mem- 
phremagog have resulted in ideal camping, with a semi- 
circle of tents, a log cabin, boats, books and banjos and 

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a happy party of twenty ; nothing is lacking. We spent 
the nights in our "home" and the days in camp, going 
and coming by land or water, having first a row, and 
next a lovely walk over the hill. We enjoyed every 
moment as all good campers do, whether wiping dishes, 
spreading bread for supper, watching the bathers, 
trolling for lunge, cruising about with Mr. Shayback in 
the rain for driftwood, or drifting in the sunshine for 
pleasure, not to forget the afternoon spent in the attic of 
the log cabin, writing to far-away friends. 

The attic consisted of a few boards across one end of 
the cabin, reached by a ladder, and afforded a fine view of 
the lake through a tiny square window, and an ideal 
standpoint for taking in the charms of the cabin, which is 
the camp parlor. The fire-place, swing chair, hammock, 
lounges, large round table with writing materials and 
latest magazines, and touches of color here and there, 
suggest infinite comfort and delight. 

The Sunday service in the chapel of cedars, to the 
music of the water lapping against the rocks, was a 
pleasure too. There was no thought of tenets and dog- 
mas, in this living temple — only a soul-uplifting for the 
friends of many faiths who had come together on that 
bright morning. 

Monday came, and with it the Maid — the "hay-eater" 
would not do for a trip to Newport. A delegation of 
campers rowed over to see us off, and by ten o'clock we 
were seated on the forward deck, despite the crazy wind, 
ready to enjoy the two-hours' sail. 

At Newport we set foot on native soil, after our two 
weeks' sojourn in Canada. The post office was our first 

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interest, and there we got a large package of letters, tied 
up, just ready to be forwarded to Georgeville when our 
countermand order was received. They had been follow- 
ing us all through Canada, reaching each place just after 
we left it. The contents were even more eagerly 
devoured than the dinner at the Memphremagog House. 

Next in order was "How shall we go home?" By a 
little deviation to the left we could go to the lovely 
Willoughby Lake and down through the Franconia 
Notch ; or by a turn toward the right we could go down 
through Vermont into the Berkshire region, and call on a 
friend in Great Barrington. As we had deviated 
sufficiently, perhaps, for one trip, we decided on a drive 
through central Vermont, which was the most direct 
route, and the only one we had not taken before. This 
route would take us to Montpelier, and through a lovely 
country generally ; such a contrast to the Canada driving. 

The next ten days were full of interest ; a good wetting 
was our first experience after leaving Newport. The 
shower came on so suddenly that we used a waterproof 
in place of the boot, and did not know until night that the 
water stood in the bottom of the phaeton and found its 
way into our canvas grip. The large rooms we were 
fortunate in having in that old ark of a hotel were turned 
into drying rooms, and were suggestive of a laundry. 
Our misfortune seemed very light when we read the dis- 
asters of the shower just ahead of us. We passed, the 
next day, an old lady sitting in the midst of her house- 
hold goods on one side of the road, and her wreck of a 
house, unroofed by the lightning or wind, on the other. 

We begged the privilege of taking our lunch in a barn 

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that day, as it rained again. We tried to be romantic 
and bury ourselves in the hay with a book, but the 
spiders and grasshoppers drove us to the carriage. We 
spent a night at Morristown on the lovely Lamoille River, 
and again revived delightful memories of a week spent 
there before carriage-journey days; especially the twen- 
ty miles' drive on the top of a stage in the heaviest 
thunderstorm of the season, and a day on Mt. Mansfield. 

We had another look at the Winooski River, which we 
saw first at Burlington, and the day after our visit to 
Montpelier we followed Wait's River, which ought to 
have a prettier name, from its infancy, in the shape of a 
tiny crack on a hillside, through its gradual growth to a 
rarely beautiful stream, and its final plunge into the Con- 
necticut. We forgot the rain in studying the life of a 
river. 

In one little hotel the dining-room was like a green- 
house ; plants in every corner, in the windows, on the top 
of the stove, and in seven chairs. The air was redolent 
of tuberoses instead of fried meats, and we were 
reminded of the wish expressed by a friend in the New- 
port package of letters, that we might live on perfumes. 

At another hotel in Vermont we did not at first quite 
like the clerk, and we think he was not favorably 
impressed with us, for he conducted us past several 
pleasant unoccupied rooms, through a narrow passage 
way to a small back room with one gas jet over the 
washstand. We accepted the quarters without comment, 
except asking to have some garments removed, as we do 
not follow Dr. Mary Walker's style of dress. We then 
improved our appearance so far as possible and went to 

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supper. When we came out of the dining-room, we very 
politely asked the clerk if he could give us a room with 
better light, as we had some writing to do. He looked at 
us a moment and then said he would see what he could 
do. We followed him by all these rooms, which would 
have been perfectly satisfactory, until, in another part of 
the house, he ushered us into what must be the bridal 
suite — an elegantly furnished apartment, with dressing- 
room and bath, a chandelier, piano, sofa and every lux- 
ury. We expressed not the least surprise, but quietly 
thanked him, saying, "This is much more like." 

We stayed over a half-day at one place, to rest Jerry, 
and as we were sitting with our books under a tree in the 
yard, a traveling doctor, who was staying at the same 
house, came rather abruptly upon us, asking many ques- 
tions. We do not know his name or his "hame," nor does 
he know nearly as much of us as he would if our civil 
answers had contained more information. Evidently he 
was leading up to something, and after he had tried to 
find out whether we were married or single, where we 
lived, what we should do if we were attacked on the road, 
or if a wheel should get "set," as his did the other day, 
etc., etc., etc., out it came: "Well, what do you take 
with you for medicine?" The "nothing but mind-cure," 
which spoke itself as quick as thought, was a cruel blow, 
and too much for his patience. The hasty gesture which 
waived the whole subject and a gruff "you ought to have 
something" was followed by the opportune dinner bell, 
and we never saw him more. He fasted until we were 
off. 

As we journeyed south we found we should be just in 

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time to take in the last Sunday of the grove meeting at 
Weirs, and we thought Lake Champlain, the St. Law- 
rence River, Lake Memphremagog and Lake Winnipi- 
seogee would make an interesting water outline for our 
trip. This little plan was, however, delightfully frus- 
trated, for as we drove along Saturday morning on our 
way to Plymouth, we saw our Great Barrington friend 
sitting at the window of her New Hampshire home, and 
in less than five minutes Jerry was in the barn and we 
were captured for a Sunday conference at Quincy. 
There was only one thing to regret, the delay in getting 
to Plymouth for our mail, and it was suggested one of us 
might go down on a train between five and six, and there 
would be just time to go to the post office before the 
return train. There was a terrific thunder shower early 
in the afternoon, but it had passed, and so we decided to 
go, although we confess it did seem more of an under- 
taking than the trip to Canada. Our courage nearly 
failed when we stood on the platform of the little station 
and saw, as we looked up the valley, that another shower 
was coming and seemed likely to burst in fury upon us 
before we could get on board the train. We should have 
given it up, but while waiting we had discovered another 
Mayflower relative going farther south, and we faced it 
together. Repentance came in earnest when the conduc- 
tor said there would not be time to go to the post office. 
Being in the habit of reckoning time by the fractions of 
minutes, we took out our watch and asked for time-table 
figures ; but do our best we could not extort from him the 
exact time the train was due to return. We kept ahead 

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of the shower the six or seven miles to Plymouth, and 
before we got to the station he came to say that by 
getting off at the crossing, and going up a back street, 
there might be time. A young man got off at the same 
place, and said, as we hastened up the street, "the shower 
will get there before you do !" We distanced the elements, 
however, but imagine our dismay at sight of the delivery 
window closed. It was an urgent case, and we ventured 
to tap on the glass. No answer, and we tapped again, 
trembling with the double fear of the liberty taken, and 
of losing the train. A young man with a pleasant face 
— how fortunate it was not the deaf old man we once 
battled with for our mail, for taps would have been 
wasted on him — lifted the window a crack, and with 
overwhelming thanks we took the letters. By this time 
the office was full of people who had sought shelter from 
the shower, which had got there in dreadful fury. Water- 
proof and umbrella were about as much protection as 
they would be in the ocean. Like a maniac, we ran 
through the streets, and smiled audibly as we waded 
rubberless, to the station under the Pemigewasset House. 
If we had dropped right out of the clouds upon that plat- 
form, alive with men, we should not have been received 
with more open-eyed amazement. Out of breath and 
drenched, we asked if the train had gone to Quincy. "No, 
and I guess it won't yet awhile, if it rains like this!" 
Washouts and probable detentions danced through our 
mind, as the lightning flashed and the thunder roared as 
if the end had come. In course of time it came out that 
the "return" train was a freight, which would start after 

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two other trains had gone. The conductor came along 
and said, "It is too bad, but the office will be closed now." 
"Oh, I have been, and have my letters too." 

The freight "time" was announced, and the car was 
reached by a jump down three feet from the platform 
into water as many inches deep, and a climb on the other 
side. Every face was strange but one, that of the "drum- 
mer" who breakfasted at our table that morning, and 
who liked the little hotel so much that he was going back 
to spend Sunday, as we were informed by the waitress. 
We do not think he mistrusted that the bedraggled pas- 
senger was one of the carriage tourists. We wrung out 
the dress skirt, hung up the waterproof to drain, and then 
were ready to enjoy the luxury, — the caboose. When 
we reached Quincy the sun was setting in bright clouds, 
as if it had never heard of rain. 

The prodigal himself was not more gladly welcomed. 
Our outer self was hung up to dry, and in borrowed 
plumage we spent a very social evening, with the many 
friends who had come to us by mail, through tribulation, 
to swell the company. 

We went to Vermont to begin our journey, and we 
may as well end it in New Hampshire. We must tell 
you first, however, that this journey has opened the way 
for many trips that have seemed among the impossible, 
but which we now hope to enjoy before Jerry is over- 
taken by old age or the phaeton shares the fate of the 
proverbial chaise. 



172 



CHAPTER XI. 

OUTINGS IN MASSACHUSETTS. 

"Too bad you did not have your trip this year," and 
"You did not have your usual drive, did you ?" from one 
and another, proves that others besides ourselves thought 
we did not "go anywhere" just because we did not drive 
seven hundred miles, and cross the borders into Canada 
as we did last year. But we will remind you as we have 
reminded ourselves, that a little is just as good as a great 
deal so long as it lasts, and that no one need go to 
Canada thinking to find finer driving than right here in 
Massachusetts. Indeed, the enchantment of Canadian 
roads is largely that lent by distance. 

Seriously, it is not that we did not go to Canada or to 
the mountains, that the impression has gone abroad that 
we did not go anywhere, but because of the mountains 
or obstructions that lay across our path all July and 
August, and threatened September. Scripture says 
mountains can be removed by faith, and perhaps it was 
due to our faith in believing we should go because we 
always have been, that the way was suddenly cleared 
near the middle of September, and we were off without 
any farewells for just a little turn in Massachusetts. 

Our annual outing had a long preliminary of waiting, 
and our story would be quite incomplete unless we gave 
you a little account of our doings during the weeks we 
were — not weeping and wailing — but wondering, and 
watching the signs of the times and trying to think how 

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it would seem if we should have to give it up after 
eighteen summers without a break. 

There is a balm for every ill, and a row boat is next to 
a phaeton, while camping is an indescribable pleasure to 
those who like it. We do, and joined the first party of 
ladies who camped in this vicinity. The delightful 
recollections of our tent life by Wachusett Lake have 
intensified as time went on, and one year ago they 
seemed to culminate when the A. family purchased an 
acre of land by Spec pond, and built a camping cottage. 

Probably there are very few Transcript readers who 
know there is such a lovely spot in the world as Spec, for 
you cannot see it unless you go where it is. 

The passing traveler on the highway would never sus- 
pect that these little wood roads lead to such a lovely 
sheet of water, clear and very deep, a half mile perhaps 
from shore to shore, and so thickly wooded all around 
that all you can see of the outer world is just the tip of 
Wachusett from one place in the pond. Almost adjoin- 
ing, although entirely hidden, is another pond known as 
"Little Spec." Spectacle Pond is the correct but never- 
used name of these waters, about four miles from Leom- 
inster, and indeed, four miles from everywhere — Lancas- 
ter, Harvard, Shirley or Lunenburg. 

Now you know about the pond you may be interested 
in the cottage, which is reached by a private winding 
road through the woods after leaving the highway, or by 
a long flight of easy steps from the little wharf. A clear- 
ing was made large enough for the cottage, which is sim- 
ple in construction, but all a true camper could wish in 
comfort and convenience. There is one large room, and 

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a smaller room back for a kitchen, which furnishes ample 
opportunity for as many to lend a hand as chance to be in 
camp, for co-operation is specially adapted to such life. 
Six cosy bedrooms open from these two rooms. There is 
a broad piazza in front, which serves as an ideal dining- 
room, from which you seem to have water on three sides, 
as Breezy Point (it so christened itself one hot summer 
day) is shaped something like half an egg. The entire 
front of the cottage can be opened, and what could look 
cosier than that roomy room, with a large hanging lamp 
over a table surrounded by comfortable chairs, the walls 
bright with shade hats and boating caps, handy pin- 
cushions, and in fact everything one is likely to want in 
camp — all so convenient? Under a little table you would 
find reading enough for the longest season, and in the 
drawer a "register" which testifies to about seven hun- 
dred visitors, among them Elder Whitely from the 
Shaker community we read about in Howells's "Undis- 
covered Country," who brought with him a lady from 
Australia, and an Englishman who was interested to 
examine a mosquito, having never seen one before — 
happy man ! Hammocks may swing by the dozen, right 
in front of the cottage ; and just down the slope to the left 
is a little stable, with an open and a box stall, and a shed 
for the carriage. If you follow along the shore towards 
the steps, you will find the boats in a sheltered spot. 

The hospitality of the A. family is unlimited, and the 
friend who was "counted in" so many times the first sea- 
son that she felt as if she "belonged" resolved she would 
have a boat next season that could be shared with the 
campers; for you cannot have too many boats. When 

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the summer days were over, and one would almost shiver 
to think of Spec, with the bare trees and the cold water 
beneath the icy surface, the boat fever still ran high, and 
one of the coldest, dreariest days last winter, we went to 
Clinton to look at some boats partly built. We ploughed 
through the snow in search of the boats, and then of the 
man who owned them, and were nearly frozen when we 
had at last selected one and given directions for the 
finishing up. We had an hour to wait in the station, and 
we said, "Now, let's name the boat!" As quick as 
thought one exclaimed, "What do you think of *G. W.' — 
not George Washington, but simply the 'mystic initials' 
suggested by date of purchase?" As quick came the 
answer, "I like it." "Very well, the G. W. it is." Lest 
we take too much credit to ourselves for quick thinking 
we will tell you that a little friend said in the morning, 
"Why, if you get your boat today, you ought to call it 
George Washington, for it is his birthday, a fact which 
had not occurred to us. 

Now if Jerry could tell a story as well as Black Beauty, 
he would fill the Transcript with his observations, but 
he never speaks; that is, in our language. He wears no 
blinkers, however, and nothing escapes those eyes, and 
he may think more than if he spent his time talking. I 
feel positively sure that could he have told his thoughts 
when we began to speak in earnest of our drive in Sep- 
tember, he would have said, "What is the need of those 
two thinking they must go so far for a good time, making 
me travel over such roads, sometimes all clay and weeds, 
or pulling up very steep hills, only to go down again, per- 
haps tugging through sand, or worse yet, through water 

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14000 MILES 

— fording they call it, I call it an imposition — when they 
have such good times here, and I have only to travel 
eight miles a day, even if they go home nights, as they 
usually do ; for the regular campers like to have a sort of 
daily express to bring stores and visitors, — leaving me 
all the day to rest and enjoy myself?" He would tell 
you how many pretty ways to go and come, although left 
to himself he would always take the shortest, if it does 
go over Rice Hill; of the lovely way by "Alden's" where 
they stop for ice ; and a lovelier yet going home through 
the woods by "Whiting Gates'," whe,n a view bursts upon 
you as you suddenly leave the woods, which is like a 
Berkshire picture ; and how discouraging it is, when they 
take it into their heads to go by way of Lunenburg sta- 
tion, or perhaps Lancaster. He has decided^preferences, 
and his ears and the turn of his head betray him. 

He would give you glowing accounts of so many hap- 
py days at Spec, beginning with a bright day in April, 
when we took our paint pots and drove down early, hav- 
ing ordered the boat delivered that day. We waited all 
day and no boat came, but we had such a good time 
roaming about the woods and rowing that we overcame 
easily our disappointment. We issued another order for 
delivery, and on the second day of May, when we once 
more took a day, Jerry would tell you how astonished he 
was to find waiting for us, right at the turn into the 
woods, two men with a big wagon, and such a big thing 
on it. His eyes were open all that day, for we tipped the 
boat up in the shed right beside him and eagerly went to 
work. What fun it was to put on that bright yellow 
paint, and then trim it up with black, only the black 

177 

12 



14000 MILES 

flecks would get on to the fresh yellow, and what a mix- 
ture, when we tried to remove them! You would have 
thought we were painting the daintiest panel, by the care 
we used ; and you know it is said a woman never stops 
as long as there is a drop of paint left, so the four oars 
were gleaming. 

A week later we went again to put on the second coat, 
and this time we had a friend with us from New York. 
The little smooth rock on which she inscribed her name 
and the date in yellow paint still rests in its cosy spot by 
a tree, just as she left it. 

Next came the launching, and later yet the painting of 
"G. W." in monogram on the stern by the camp artist, 
and in due time the red cushions, with the monograms in 
black made by loving friends. 

The "G. W." has many friends, and one day in the 
summer, when we were drifting at the will of the wind 
and musing, we were startled by the sound of a gong. A 
horn is the usual summons to return to camp. We caught 
up the oars, and hastened to solve the mystery. "Don't 
you wonder how those Lancaster friends ever thought of 
a beautiful Japanese gong for the 'G. W.' to call the crew 
together?" they said. 

If we are not careful we shall make the "preliminary" 
as long as Jerry would; but then that covers months, 
while the journey was only a little over two weeks. 
Really, we have hardly begun to tell you the good times 
we had during these weeks of waiting. Sometimes we 
went to Spec with a carriage full of people, and often- 
times with a wagon full of things; anything and every- 
thing from a cream pie to a bale of hay, or a sawhorse. 

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14000 MILES 

However we went, or whatever for, it was never so sunny 
or so cloudy, so hot or so cold, that we could resist taking 
a turn with the "G. W." even if we had to bail out nearly 
five hundred dipperfuls first, as we did more than once; 
you know it has rained now and then for a year or two. 

It was always a delight, from the time of the budding 
of the trees and bushes along the shore to that raw cold 
day late in November when we had our last row in fur 
cloak and mittens while waiting for the men to come and 
put the G. W. on shore for the winter. The hillside of 
laurel, in its season, is beyond description. You must 
leave the boat and take a look for yourself. Although 
close by the shore, it is hidden from the, water except in 
glimpses. Later come the fragrant white azaleas all along 
the shore, and the beautiful lilies in the coves, then the 
gorgeous autumn foliage, and lastly the chestnuts, which 
tempt one to pull the boat into the bushes and just look 
for a few. We said "lastly." How could we forget that 
day when we went sleighing to Spec to see how it looked 
in winter, and just wished we; had some skates as we 
walked about on the ice! How lovely it was that day! 
How cold it was the day after when the "camp artist" 
took her chair out on the ice, and tried to finish up a 
sketch begun in the fall ! 

Nothing is more enjoyable than to make a complete 
circuit of the pond, rounding Point Judith, passing Laurel 
landing, touching at the old club landing if friends are 
there, then on by Divoll's landing, Spiritualist Point, 
Sandy Beach, and so on to Breezy Point again. Passing 
the Lancaster landing reminds us that we have forgotten 
to tell you that a party of Lancaster gentlemen purchased 

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five acres adjoining Breezy Point, and have built a cot- 
tage, which makes us begin to wonder if Spec will some- 
time be a fashionable watering place. May the day be 
far distant ! 

We must go on, and yet not one word have we told you 
of the times when we stayed two or three days, and how 
we spent all our evenings on the water, just dipping 
lightly the oars, while we watched the sunset clouds, and 
then were on the alert for the first glimpse of Venus, 
followed by Mars and Jupiter, and all the rest of the 
heavenly host, not to mention seeing the moon rise three 
times in fifteen minutes, one night, by changing our posi- 
tion on the water, after waiting four hours for it; or 
glorious to tell of, rising early and going out for a row 
before breakfast. Mrs. Shayback will testify to all we 
tell you of the joys of camp life, and how even work is 
play, for she and her friends built a log cabin in their 
Memphremagog camp last summer and were jubilant 
over it. 

As I live it all over telling you about it, I marvel myself 
that we think a phaeton trip is better than camping; but 
we do, and without a pang we turned from it all, and 
started off in the rain Sept. 13th. We will not trust Jerry 
to tell you anything of this outing, for his enthusiasm is 
not sufficient to do it justice. It had rained constantly 
for five days, and we waited two hours for what we 
thought might be the "clearing up" shower, but we were 
only very glad we did not spoil our day's drive, for it con- 
tinued to rain for five days longer. 

you may remember, for we have often spoken of it, 
that we do not usually plan our journeys beforehand ; but 

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this year, as our time was too limited to permit us to 
stray away to Canada, or even among the mountains, and 
as we had a suggestion of months' standing to turn Jerry 
towards Great Barrington, we decided to revel once more 
in the delights of Berkshire. 

A friend sent us her direct route from our house, but 
we proved true to our wandering inclinations by going to 
the extreme eastern part of the state to reach the extreme 
western portion, simply because we have never been to 
Berkshire that way. The journey did not open as 
auspiciously as sometimes, owing less to the rain, to 
which we have become accustomed, almost attached to, 
than to the experience of our first night, which we will 
spare you, as we wish we could have been spared. It was 
all forgotten, however, when we stole quietly into the 
back pew of a church near Boston, and were pleasantly 
taken possession of by friends after service. In the even- 
ing we repeated the experience in another suburb twelve 
or fifteen miles away. 

We were not quite ready to face Great Barrington- 
ward, so went a little farther easterly, then took a genu- 
ine westward direction. To know how soon and how 
often we deviated you should see the little outline maps 
we made of this trip. We drove west, then southwest to 
the border line, then up again, taking dinner or spending 
a night at Medfield and Milford, Uxbridge and Webster, 
Southbridge and Palmer, having reasons of our own for 
each deviation, one of which was to make sure we did not 
get so near home that Jerry would insist upon taking us 
there. 

On the way to Palmer we discovered that the whiffle- 

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14000 MILES 

tree was broken. We were trying to secure it with wire, 
which we always have with us, when an elderly gentle- 
man drove along and asked if he could help us. He exam- 
ined our work and approved it, but did not seem quite sat- 
isfied to leave, and finally said, "Does this team belong 
'round here?" 

"No, sir ; it does not." 

"Oh, I see ; perhaps you do not care to tell where you 
came from." 

"Oh, yes, we do ; we are from Leominster." 

A little intimation of business came next and we 
assured him we were not book agents or canvassers of 
any kind, but were simply traveling for pleasure. His 
interest warmed, and when in justice to Jerry, we told 
him he took us seven hundred miles, to Canada and back, 
in one month last year, he was greatly pleased, and said, 
"Well, well, that is good, I will warrant you !" and drove 
on. 

Our repairs were completed just in season for the next 
shower. The little whiffletree episode came in one of 
those between-times when the rain seemed to stop to take 
breath for a fresh start. This last, which proved the 
clearing shower, was a triumph. How it did pour ! 

We left Palmer in the morning, after some delay, in 
glorious sunshine and with a new whiffletree, but minus 
some of our literature, owing to the washing of the 
phaeton. The hostler said he knew some of the "papers" 
went off in "that man's buggy." We do not know who 
"that man" was, but what he thought when he found 
himself possessed of a writing tablet, a "New Ideal" and 

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14000 MILES 

"The Esoteric" depends upon his intellectual status and 
attitude of thought. A new world may have been 
revealed to him. 

Our next destination was Springfield, and after dinner 
at the Massasoit, with our first letters from home for 
dessert, we drove on, via Chicopee, to Westfield for the 
night. Here we considered our next deviation from a 
direct course. As there was some uncertainty about the 
condition of the roads, we were advised to go to Chester, 
which gave us a pretty drive along the Westfield River. 
We got in earlier than usual, and went out for a walk, 
and amused ourselves — or rather one did, while the other 
sketched — walking over the swinging wire footbridges. 
They are precarious looking things, and when half-way 
across, the rushing of the river many feet below and the 
swinging motion give one the impression of bridge and 
all going up stream. 

We remembered well the drive from Chester to Lee, a 
few years ago. It is almost as good as among the moun- 
tains just after leaving Chester. Up, up, we go, and 
every spring, rill, rivulet and cascade is alive. We wish 
everybody could go through Berkshire after a ten days' 
storm. After a few miles we changed our course towards 
Otis and Monterey, and all might have been well if we 
had not made a turn too soon, which took us over a back 
road deserted and demoralized ; but they say "all is well 
that ends well," and we reached Monterey in season to 
climb a hill for a view and take a brisk walk to get warm. 

Our only definite plan when we left home was to meet 
friends at a service in Great Barrington, Sunday after- 

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noon, Sept. 21. It was now Saturday night, and we were 
nine miles away, but that distance was easily accom- 
plished Sunday morning, and we reached Great Barring- 
ton just in season to get a round dozen of letters at twelve 
o'clock. We secured delightful quarters at the Berkshire 
House, and in due time went to the service, as planned. 
We failed to surprise our friends, as they were not there, 
but were well repaid otherwise, and went in search of 
them later. A pleasant call, a promise to visit the next 
day, a quiet hour at the Berkshire, a service in the Hop- 
kins Memorial Church, especially to hear the wonderful 
Roosevelt organ, and the day ended. We had a fine view 
of the Hopkins-Searle castle-like residence from our win- 
dows ; but we lost all interest in it when we found a high 
and massive wall was being built the length of the street, 
which will deprive Great Barrington people of their finest 
view along the valley. 

Our Monday visit was very delightful. We promised 
to go early and stay late; but withal the day was too 
short for the visit with our friends and their friends. 
With the help of those who have tried it twice, driving 
for months through England and Scotland, we planned a 
foreign tour, and got all the "points," even to the expense 
of taking Jerry across. We shall defer it however, until 
we get a new phaeton, for we prefer to go through the 
prophesied "one-hoss shay" experience on native soil. 
Really, crossing the water does not seem nearly so 
"Spain-like" as crossing the "line," and driving one hun- 
dred miles north in Canada would have seemed some 
years ago; but we will defer anticipation even. 

In the afternoon our friends gave us a charming drive, 

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and revealed to us the attractions of Great Barrington 
and vicinity. We thought of Bryant as we saw Green 
River, and felt nearer yet to him when we called on a 
friend, known there as the historian of Great Barrington, 
who showed to us the rooms in which Mr. Bryant first 
kept house. A half-hour passed very quickly with our 
friend, who has a rare collection of arrow-heads, and a 
fund of interesting information. 

Tuesday we were off again, with a good morning from 
our friends and the foreign tourists. There is no lovelier 
driving than through the old town of Stockbridge, with 
its many noted attractions, on through Lenox, captured 
by New Yorkers, to Pittsfield; and yet, just because we 
had been there before, we decided to try a new route. We 
thought we were enthusiastic over State lines and 
Shakers, and started off in good faith, dined at West 
Stockbridge primitively, when Mr. Plumb would have 
served us royally at the old Stockbridge inn, and took our 
directions for State line. While we were waiting for a 
freight train to clear the track, we came to our senses and 
asked each other why. we were going this way, con- 
fessed we were being cheerful under protest, repented, 
and were converted literally in less time than it takes us 
to tell it. Paul's conversion was not more sudden. Jerry 
trotted back towards Stockbridge as if he was as glad as 
we were. We could have gone direct to Lenox, but we 
were going to Stockbridge, and we have been glad ever 
since. Our folly only gave us nine miles extra driving on 
a very lovely day, through a lovely country, and enhanced 
ten fold the enjoyment of the afternoon drive back to 
Stockbridge, and then up through Lenox to Pittsfield 

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where we spent the night, and said many times "Oh, 
are n't you glad we are not over in York State?" 

We busied ourselves quite late that night at Pittsfield 
making maps of our zigzagging route to send to friends. 
In order to have them strictly accurate according to Col- 
ton, we made use of a table and bed blankets — but how 
foolish to give away our bright ideas, we may want to 
get a patent some day ! 

The next morning we were off in good season for a 
drive over Windsor Hill (still so glad we were not in 
York State). We took our lunch by the way that day, 
and gave Jerry his rest at a farm house. Now we were 
near Bryant's birthplace, but had to satisfy ourselves 
with looking at the signboard, "Two miles to Bryant's 
place," and a look at the library presented by him to 
Cummington, as we drove by. We surely met a hundred 
or more vehicles of great variety — the balloons, candy 
and peanuts giving evidence that everybody had been to 
the fair. It was the season of fairs, and we had encoun- 
tered them all the way along. We saw the Palmer 
people watching the racing in that clearing-up shower, 
and the Great Barrington people were wondering how 
they should come out with the track under water. At 
Westfield we had to go to the hotel "over the river," all 
because of the fair. 

How they did fly around at that little hotel in East 
Cummington ! It had been filled to overflowing the night 
before with fair guests, and quite a company of young 
people were still lingering for supper, enjoying while 
waiting, a banjo and vocal medley. We sat full three 

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hours in the little sittingroom with hats on, and books in 
hand, trying to read, before the beaux and banjos were 
out of the way, and our room was made ready. Peace 
once restored, not a sound was heard all night. 

Our next drive was over Goshen Hill, where we dined 
and "prospected." One cannot drive anywhere in this 
vicinity without recalling Mr. Chadwick's enthusiastic 
descriptions of the rivers and hills. We fully agree with 
him as regards the justness of Mr. Warner's observation, 
"How much water adds to a river !" and if we drove over 
Goshen Hill as often as he does when summering in Ches- 
terfield, we too might like to take a Century along with 
us, "in order to have plenty of time." 

Night found us once more at Northampton, where we 
always find pleasant quarters, and the moon was just as 
bright as it was the last time we were there. We spent 
the evening with a former pastor, who looked at us a mo- 
ment as he came to the door and then exclaimed, "Why, 
children, how glad I am to see you!" A real catechism 
exercise followed between pastor and "children" about 
everybody in Leominster in those bygone years. 

We dined at Amherst the next day, and had a hard pull 
over the hills in the rain to Enfield in the afternoon. We 
had never been in Enfield before, and were surprised to 
find such a pleasant hotel there — more like a home. 
Sixteen miles next morning took us to the new hotel in 
Barre, which has quite an "air," with its hard floors, rugs 
and attractive furnishings. We had no lovelier drive on 
the trip than the fifteen miles from Barre to the old 
Mountain House at the foot of Wachusett. The foliage 

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was brighter than any we had seen and the sunset clouds 
we enjoyed to the utmost, for we were late that night, 
having taken the longest way round. 

Many happy times were recalled here, where we used 
to go so much before the carriage road to the summit was 
made on the other side, by the lake. No road, however, 
can compete with the charm of that foot-path up the pas- 
ture back of the Mountain House, and on through the 
ferny woods to the summit. We were almost tempted to 
try it in memory of old times, but this was our last day, 
and we could not resist a quiet morning in our sunny 
room, feasting on the extended view, and comparing it 
with the Berkshire region. We wished our Berkshire 
friends were with us to see how lovely our part of the 
state is. 

We stayed just as long as we possibly could in the 
afternoon and then drove the twelve miles to Leominster 
before dark, going by way of Wachusett Lake to look at 
our first camping ground and the old chestnut tree on 
which swung our five hammocks. Years have told upon 
the old tree, and it looked very scraggy, while a cellar 
was being dug on the very knoll where our big tent was 
pitched, that blew down three times one day. The rocks 
on which we slept so peacefully, even after finding a 
snake one morning, may be in the cellar wall. How many 
"auras" will cluster about that dwelling! Whoever occu- 
pies it, may their years be as full of happiness as were 
the days when "we twelve" camped there! Why not 
stop right here and let our story end in the key it began, 
"camping." If there was a suggestion of minor at first, 
when we were almost afraid we could not drive this year, 

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the end was a joyous major. What a lovely journey, if 
it was short ! 

Soon after this journey report appeared in the Trans- 
cript, a long and very interesting letter, also photographs, 
were received from the finder of the "literature" lost at 
Palmer. "That man" proved to be two ladies just return- 
ing from a long trip by carriage, and when they discov- 
ered the unknown property, they concluded some man 
had borrowed their buggy, and driven to Springfield the 
night before, and left his papers under the cushion! 
From the character of the magazines, they fancied the 
"borrower" to be "a clergyman of liberal views, tall, slen- 
der, an ascetic — we were sure he wore eyeglasses — and 
on that night was arrayed in a long natty mackintosh." 
They sent the "treasure trove" back to the Weeks stable, 
and drove on "shaking the mud of Palmer off our tires, 
and vowing that we would never trust our beloved 
Katrina Van Tassel to a Palmer stable again in Fair 
time." 



189 



CHAPTER XII. 

BAR HARBOR AND BOSTON. 

Well, we have really celebrated our twentieth anniver- 
sary! Twenty consecutive phaeton trips! Nearly eight 
thousand miles driving through the New England States, 
New York and Canada ! Our phaeton looks a little past 
its prime, and yet does not seem to feel its age. If, in 
these days of mysterious communication, it could have a 
tete-a-tete with the "one-hoss shay," and compare notes, 
what a garrulous old couple they would be ! Some people 
thought we ought to have a guardian on our first journey, 
and had we anticipated a twentieth, we ourselves should 
have felt as if by that time we should need a corps. If 
all our wanderings had been revealed to us as we drove 
along the Connecticut, on that first trip, they would have 
seemed more improbable than Camille Flammarion's 
excursions among the solar systems ; but we live now in 
an age which has ceased to wonder beyond — what next? 
and time and space are both out of fashion in the realms 
we are exploring, when not limited to the range of a 
phaeton ; so a twenty years' look ahead now seems but a 
passing moment of time. 

"Well, well," do I hear you say, "tell us where you 
went." Do not be impatient ; if you travel with us, you 
must be content to go as we go, and we never know 
where we are going until we have been. It would spoil 
the whole story if we should tell you now, for it would 
seem as if we knew all about it when we started off that 

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lovely afternoon the last of June, with maps of Maine, 
New Hampshire and Vermont, but without the faintest 
idea which we should use. 

If we were to have a journey, we must go somewhere 
for the first night ; and we decided on Groton, as we have 
been asked so many times if we have ever stayed at the 
cosy inn kept by two sisters. We found it as pleasant as 
had been described to us, and it seemed a good opening 
for our twentieth to find such a pretty new place for our 
first night. But where next? 

Does it seem strange to you, to go off for a three weeks' 
trip without the slightest idea whether you are bound for 
mountain or sea shore ? Well, our experience is that the 
best journeys make themselves, as the best books write 
themselves, for they accomplish what we should never 
think to plan. 

Once more we spread our maps, as we have done so 
many times, just to find a place for the next night. We 
pinned Maine on to New Hampshire and Massachusetts, 
and how big it looked ! Surely if we once got into Maine 
we could roam at will, with no fear of being lost over the 
borders. It looked very tempting too, for it was a new 
map, and the colors were bright, while the other maps 
were faded and worn. As we traced one possible route 
after another, it really seemed as if Maine was our desti- 
nation, unless we should encounter the "green-heads," 
which would send us flying, for Jerry would be frantic. 
We folded the maps after deciding on Andover for the 
second night. On our way we left cards at a friend's 
house in Westford, bought a box of strawberries at 
Lowell, and had our first camp by the wayside. 

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14000 MILES 

At Andover we studied the "way to Maine," as if it 
was the lesson assigned. Thirty-one miles took us to 
Hampton, N. H., via Haverhill, where we said "Good 
morning" to a friend, and later took our luncheon in a 
pretty grove by a lake. 

At Hampton our journey seemed to begin in earnest, 
for here we began to follow the coast, driving on every 
beach accessible; Boar's Head, Rye Beach, Jenness 
Beach, Straw's Point, Foss Beach, and passing "The 
Wentworth,"which last took us a mile or two out of the 
direct route, and gave us a look at the old portions of 
Portsmouth, so like Marblehead in its quaintness. All 
these favorite resorts we took in on our way from Hamp- 
ton to York, winding up with the new shore road from 
York Harbor to Hotel Bartlett on York Beach, where we 
went for the third night. 

A good supper, brisk walk on the beach, refreshing 
sleep, and another lovely morning dawned. The view of 
the beach and surf is very fine from "Bartlett's," but we 
are birds of passage, and fly on, mentally photographing 
all the beauties by the way, to be recalled and enjoyed at 
our leisure. Instantaneous views had to suffice for that 
day, for the next was Fourth of July, and we wanted to 
reach Ferry Beach, where Jerry as well as ourselves 
could spend it peacefully, not being inclined to join in the 
festivities of the bicyclists at Saco. Jerry made easy 
work of the nearly forty miles, perhaps owing to the 
three miles' brisk trot on Wells Beach. Just as we left 
the beach, came the dense fog which hung along the 
coast for days, but we soon drove out of it into the bright 
sunshine, and realized, more fully than ever before, that 

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the sun is always shining beyond the clouds. We dined 
and made a call in Kennebunk, but had to send our 
thoughts to our hospitable friend a mile away, and pass 
by the port rather than overtask Jerry. 

Biddeford and Saco were alive with preparations for 
the Fourth. We got our letters, our first word from 
home, and gladly turned towards Ferry Beach. 

Bay View was spick and span, and Mrs. Manson, the 
efficient hostess, welcomed us, and gave us her best room. 
We are almost sure a woman should reign supreme in a 
hotel as well as in a home. Who would want a man for 
a housekeeper! There was a homelike look from the 
bright carpeted office, with a work-basket and sewing- 
chair, to the easy nook in the uppe^r hall, with the taste- 
fully arranged plants behind the lace draperies. 

How we slept, after a two-miles' walk on the beach! 
Not a cannon, cracker, bell or tin horn, and the morning 
was like an old-fashioned Sunday. After dinner the 
children had a few torpedoes and crackers, so we knew 
our peace was not owing to prohibition. We never knew 
a hotel where children seem to have so much liberty, 
which is never abused, as at Bay View. Is this, too, 
owing to a woman's tact? In the evening we watched 
the fireworks at Old Orchard, two miles away, and won- 
dered whether we should keep to the coast, or follow up 
the Kennebec to Augusta, and go home through the 
mountains. 

We got all the information we could, and having 
rested on the Jewish Sabbath, we drove on Sunday 
nearly thirty miles, dining at Portland, and spending the 
night at Royal Rivers, a comfortable little hotel at Yar- 

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14000 MILES 

mouth. We got our only wetting on that Sunday after- 
noon in a spasmodic shower, but we think it cannot be 
considered a retribution in this enlightened age. 

The next day's drive took us through Brunswick to 
Bath. Here we were at three o'clock, Jerry too tired to 
go farther, time on our hands, and the Kennebec so allur- 
ing! Our letters had not come, and how could we order 
them forwarded, when we did not know where we were 
going? We must wait. We shall always feel indebted to 
that bright girl in the post office, who told us we could 
go down to Popham Beach for the night, as the Boston 
boat stopped there daily, leaving Bath at six o'clock. A 
night away from our phaeton involves quite a little plan- 
ning and repacking, and where could we do it? We 
could leave Jerry at a good stable very near the boat 
landing, but there was no hotel in the vicinity. We had 
an hour or two, and decided we would see Bath, and 
when we came across a rural back street we would repack 
in the phaeton. Bath is more of a city than we hoped, and 
despairing of finding an uninhabited back street, after we 
had driven on and up, in and out, without success, we 
stopped under a tree in a triangular space, and went to 
work regardless of the few passers-by. Very soon big 
bags, little bags, shawl cases and writing-tablet were all 
ready, some to be taken, others left ; and we retraced with 
some difficulty our crooked ways. We bade Jerry good 
night at the stable, and then had a most delightful sail of 
an hour and a half down the Kennebec to Popham Beach. 

Really, the Boston papers had not exaggerated the 
charms of that summer resort, and we were glad we were 
there, even when we learned the morning boat left at 

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quarter to seven, instead of eight or nine as we were told 
in Bath. There was no time to be lost, and we hardly 
did justice to the very delicate fish supper, in our haste 
to skip down the rocky path to the beach, where we must 
have walked two or three miles back and forth, not 
returning until it was quite dark. 

We were to breakfast at six instead of eight as usual 
when we are driving, so retired early. The hotel is on a 
very high bluff, a "corner lot," where the Kennebec 
meets the ocean, and we had a corner room. At three 
o'clock our eyes opened as if by magic, and rested on the 
most beautiful sky imaginable, stretching out over the 
ocean, and reflected in the lovely Kennebec. We marked 
the spot where the sun was soon to rise, and resolved to 
see him, but the provoking fellow popped up when our 
eyes had closed for a bit. 

The morning sail was as fine as the evening. How we 
would like to row as well as that sun-browned girl, who 
signalled the boat with her handkerchief, and, with her 
three companions, was pulled aboard as they came along- 
side, the boat being towed to the next landing. We were 
tempted to go to Augusta, it was so delightful, but Jerry 
was waiting for us. 

Our next point was Boothbay Harbor. We could have 
reached there in an hour and a half by boat from Bath, 
but Jerry could not be transported. This was no 
disappointment, however, as we are always glad to 
resume our driving. We were assured of a long, hard 
twenty-five miles, but if we were to "do" the coast, 
Boothbay must not be passed by. Letters came that 
morning, and soon we were off, fortified with oats and 

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14000 MILES 

well-filled lunch basket, ready to enjoy the day. What a 
drive it was over rickety toll-bridges, winding and twist- 
ing about, up and down such stony pitches, skirting the 
ragged edges of a bay! We took our lunch on a rocky 
bluff overlooking the water, and Jerry was invited into a 
barn and treated to hay. As we were wending our way 
towards the coast in the afternoon, feeling as if we had 
left the world behind us, a carriage came in sight, and as 
it passed a voice shouted to the driver, "Stop !" We, too, 
stopped, as a young man leaped from the carriage. We 
were glad to see anyone so glad to see us, even if we did 
not recognize at first, in the young man on a business 
tour through Maine, a boy who used to live almost next 
door to us. He surprised us again two or three days 
later, rushing out from a hotel as he saw us driving by. 

Boothbay Harbor was delightful from our window in 
the little hotel, which looked as if it had dropped acci- 
dently sidewise into a vacant spot on a side hill, and 
never faced about. After supper we walked up to the top 
of the hill for a view, through a pasture, to see what was 
beyond, and back to the hotel by the rocky shore, watch- 
ing the boats of every description anchored in the harbor. 

Writing was next in order, and the tablet was opened, 
but where was the pen-holder? Gone, surely, and it 
must have slipped out when we repacked under the tree 
in Bath ! A pen-holder may seem a small loss, but that 
one was made out of the old Hingham meeting-house, 
and has written all the Transcript letters and thousands 
of others. We grieved for it, but could only console our- 
selves thinking of the fable we read in German long ago, 
"Is a thing lost when you know where it is?" We re- 

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14000 MILES 

placed it with a Boothbay pen-holder, a bright red one 
for five cents, which is now trying to tell you of our 
journeyings as was the wont of the Hinghamite. 

It just poured that night at Boothbay, and there were 
no signs of cessation in the morning. We decided to stay 
until after dinner, and not divide our drive that day. 
Suddenly it cleared, and we went out on the street to 
make some inquiries at the boat office about Bar Harbor, 
for we were getting interested in the coast, and felt 
inclined to go on indefinitely. A small boy came along 
with a poor horse and shabby carriage, calling, "Have a 
ride? See round the Harbor for ten cents!" We had 
time, and nothing else to do, so jumped in and "did" the 
Harbor. 

The afternoon drive to Damariscotta was very pleasant, 
and we found the old brick hotel full of hospitable com- 
fort, for all it had such a forbidding exterior. We might 
have been tempted to stop a bit in Damariscotta if we 
had known what we learned a few days later, about some 
recent excavations of interest, but we were within twen- 
ty-five miles of Penobscot Bay, and impatient for our 
first glimpse of it. 

We camped that day by a country school-house. Two 
little fellows were much amused when we stopped there, 
thinking we had come to see the teacher in vacation time. 
They were greatly interested in Jerry during the unhar- 
nessing and tying to a tiny bush. We were interested in 
the wild strawberries they had picked in the tall grass 
over the wall, and one of the little fellows finally con- 
cluded he rather have the money offered him than the 
berries, although he had nothing else for his dinner. His 

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14000 MILES 

eyes glowed as he took the money and went to the field 
again, returning in a* little while to ask us if we would 
not like another quart. 

We fared well at Rockland that night, except our room 
had one too many doors, and our slumbers were 
disturbed by an impatient rattling of a door key in the 
spare one. We aroused to the situation just in season to 
surprise the well-meaning but mistaken man by a hasty 
closing of the door, with an authoritative request to him 
to lock it, when his exclamation revealed his dis- 
covery of the blunder. When we paid our bill we quietly 
suggested to the clerk that it is well to have bolts as well 
as locks on unused doors. 

And now comes one of the finest drives we ever had, 
— twenty-eight miles along Penobscot Bay through Cam- 
den and Northport to Belfast. How could anything be 
more lovely ! Crosby Inn, so fine in all its appointments, 
was in harmony with the day's drive. We had a pleasant 
chat on the piazza with fellow travelers, who had been 
following our route for a day or two. These ladies were 
traveling with a pair of horses and a man, so of course 
took it for granted we would drive the thirty-five miles to 
Bangor next day and spend Sunday there. We did not 
tell them our plans, because we had none ; we were only 
hoping we should find a quiet country hotel before we 
got to Bangor, — we like it so much better for a Sunday 
rest. 

On we drove, leaving the beautiful bay, and winding 
along Penobscot River, through Searsport, Stockton, 
Frankfort and Winterport, but saw no place that tempted 
us to stop, except a little summer house in a grove, where 

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14000 MILES 

we rested at noon. We took note of a singular advertise- 
ment over a watering-trough ; "An Open Secret, that 

sells Furniture, Burial Caskets, and Shrouds at Lowest 
Prices." 

Hampden was next and last. Unless we found a place 
there we must go to Bangor. The last part of the drive 
was very lovely, and we began to wonder what Hampden 
had in store for us. The main street, with most of the 
houses facing the river, was very pleasant for a mile 
before we came to a forlorn-looking old building with a 
faded sign, "Hampden House," over the door. We passed 
by, hoping to find a more attractive place, but no — that 
was the only hotel in Hampden. We recalled our delight- 
ful experiences in hotels with dilapidated exterior, both 
in Canada and the States, and retraced our way to the 
Hampden House, though with some misgivings we con- 
fess. A very pleasant woman met us at the door, which 
is always a good omen, and sent her little girl to call her 
father to take the horse. He came leisurely along from 
the stable, and when we asked him if we and our horse 
could be cared for, he answered, "I don't know any 
reason why you can't." To our question, "will all these 
things be safe in the phaeton?" he as dryly answered, 
"This carriage may be stolen tonight — never has been 
one taken." His words were few, but his manner was 
reassuring, and we already felt at home. 

The floor looked old, and the stairs were well worn, but 
when we and our bags were deposited in the upper front 
room, we looked about and exclaimed, "This is just one 
of our places for a Sunday rest!" — rag mats, high bed 
where you are sure to sink low in feathers, and a purely 

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country outlook. We had the dining-room all to our- 
selves, and as our hostess served our supper, she told us 
how they had come there recently for her husband's 
health, and taken this old house, which had so run down 
that no one would stop there. They were intending to 
fix it up, but had been delayed by sickness, etc., but she 
told her husband she could keep it clean. She was called 
away, for the ice cream patrons began to come ; and we 
went out for a twilight stroll on the river bank, which 
was very high, and gave us a fine view. We next went 
westward to see the sun set, and a proposition was made 
to go into the Saturday-night prayer meeting in a little 
church we passed, but it was not unanimously received, 
and we returned to our room and books. 

The night was as peaceful as Fourth of July at Ferry 
Beach, and we opened our eyes on a bright Sunday 
morning, refreshed. Our memory was awake too, and we 
were sure Hampden, Maine, was one of the places friends 
used to visit. We asked our hostess some questions, but 
she knew little of the people. Later in the morning she 
came to our room and said there was an old sea captain 
down stairs who knew everybody who ever lived in 
Hampden. We went down into the little parlor and had 
a very pleasant hour with him. He told us various stories 
of Hannibal Hamlin, who had so recently gone, and all 
about the families we were interested in, — where they 
were from, had lived, married and died. He told us of 
one old lady still living, whose house we passed as we 
came into town. 

We went back to our room, and were next interested 
in watching the coming together of the men in Sunday 

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attire, to hold a "service" on the steps of the grocery- 
store opposite the hotel. It seemed to be a general con- 
ference meeting, and the sentiments were wafted upward 
on the curling smoke from cigar and pipe. 

Dinner came next in order. Our hostess apologized 
for its simplicity, owing to our coming late Saturday 
night, but fortunately we do not spend overmuch thought 
on "the table," and after the ceremony is over it matters 
little to us. The unexpecte<d ice cream gave a nice finish- 
ing touch to our repast that day. 

The afternoon passed all too quickly with our books 
and letter writing, and the Hampdenites began to assem- 
ble for evening service. Men only attended, and one by 
one they came until there were fifteen in a row on the 
grocery steps. Presently a humpbacked man appeared, 
dragging Jerry along, looking meekness itself, to the 
town pump. Suddenly Jerry gave a spring, which 
greatly surprised the old man, and called forth sallies 
from the grocery steps, which led us to think they had 
not advanced to universal brotherhood. Directly atten- 
tion was withdrawn from the poor old man by the 
remark, "He's from Boston," referring to Jerry, and im- 
mediately rapt attention was given to our friend the sea 
captain, who looked like a genial presiding elder with his 
broad hat, white collar and linen duster. Evidently he 
was entertaining them with some of our driving exploits 
which had interested him in the morning. Finally one 
impatient voice broke in with "Well, how did they hap- 
pen to light on Hampden?" 

At this point we walked out of the hotel in face of 
the whole "congregation," for it was getting late for 

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us to go in search of the "old lady/' whom we really- 
wished to meet. We sauntered along down the pretty 
country road for nearly a mile before we came to the 
house that answered the description given us. A 

young woman came to the door, and told us Mrs. 

had gone "down the road." When we told her who we 
were, and that we came because we knew her friends, she 
said we must come in and wait while they sent for her. 
We were shown into the little parlor, and the hour of 
waiting passed more than pleasantly as one after another 
of the household came in to chat with us. Presently it 
was announced that grandma had come, and would be in 
soon. 

We -were entirely unprepared for the overwhelming 
reception she gave us, all because we knew her friends, 
for she had never heard even our names. The sea cap- 
tain had .spoken of her as an old lady, and to be sure her 
hair was white as snow, but all thought of years vanished 
when she entered the room with the grace and vivacity 
of youth, her white fluffy hair like a crown of glory, and 
the old-fashioned crescent which fastened the soft black 
handkerchief about her neck, flashing in rainbow tints, 
— and came towards us with open arms. How the time 
and our tongues did fly ! She told us how she celebrated 
her seventy-sixth birthday, but was she not mistaken? 
Had our eyes been shut, we should have declared her 
sixteen, and when we finally said we must go, she seized 
the lantern her son brought to guide us through the 
chairs and hammocks in the front yard, and refusing any 
wraps, or even her son's hat, she put her arms around 

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us and insisted upon escorting us up the road. On we 
went for a full half-mile, and then walked back and forth, 
girl fashion, for she would not let us go back with her, 
until we had parted so many times she had at last ex- 
claimed, "Well, we shall get tired kissing each other," 
and with another parting and promise to write to her, we 
watched her as she turned down the dark, lonely country 
road with her lantern at ten o'clock at night. What a 
charming time we did have ! And if we should tell you 
whose "Aunt Sarah" that was, every reader of the Tran- 
script would know ; but we are not going to say another 
word about it, except that she had the promised letter. 
We like to keep just a few things to ourselves. 

Have we told you we were on the way to Bar Harbor? 
Hampden has put everything out of our minds. We 
could have crossed the river lower down, but thought we 
might as well see Bangor when we were so near, and 
then take the main road straight down to the island, a 
distance of about sixty miles. We took a last look at 
Hampden, and after a brisk drive of six miles reached 
Bangor, where we got our mails, filled our lunch basket, 
drove about the city a little, and then were off full of 
anticipation, for we had been told repeatedly that the 
drive from Bangor to Bar Harbor was "magnificent." 

It was a pretty drive over the hills and through the 
vales to Ellsworth, where we spent the night, and we 
found a pleasant camping spot at noon. Our Ellsworth 
proprietor gave us much helpful information about Bar 
Harbor, and we left, sure that the twenty remaining 
miles were to surpass anything we had ever seen. It was 

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hot, the first really uncomfortable day since we left home, 
and it grew hotter as we came nearer the island. The 
tide was out as we crossed the bridge connecting Mt. 
Desert with the mainland, and our enthusiasm was so 
far abated by the general unattractiveness, that we won- 
dered if the name Mt. Desert did not originally mean 
something. We were still hopeful, however, but hope 
waned when we were fairly on the island, shut out from 
every breath of air, in the midst of stubbed evergreens. 
Be assured the signboard pointing to "The Ovens" did 
not tempt us from our main course that morning. 

"What unappreciative people!" I fancy Bar Harbor 
enthusiasts exclaiming. But just wait a minute. 
Remember we are not there yet. Now we round a corner 
and the scene changes. The beautiful harbor is before 
us, dotted with yachts gayly decked, and boats of every 
description. Lovely villas and charming grounds have 
supplanted the primitive huts and stubbed evergreens. 
Fine turnouts, bright girls in tennis, yachting and driving 
costumes, and now and then a real dude, not forgetting 
the "men of money" and stately dowagers, — all are here, 
yes, and processions of four-seated buckboards with 
liveried drivers seeking patronage, — everything in fact 
that goes to make a fashionable summer resort is found 
at Bar Harbor. The great charm of all is the grand com- 
bination of mountain and ocean. 

As our time was limited, we gave the afternoon to a 
round trip in Frenchman's Bay, our special object being 
to touch at Sullivan, where friends declared they looked 
for us and Jerry every day last summer. We did think 
about it, and looked it up on the map, but decided it was 

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quite too far for us to drive. Now here we were, but our 
friends were far away. No wonder they were charmed 
with their summer at Sullivan. 

Really, aside from its own charms the view of Bar 
Harbor would compensate one. We touched at several 
points in the bay, changed boats twice, and were delayed 
an hour just at sunset, which we enjoyed from the upper 
deck, and thanks to the delay, had a view of Bar Harbor 
electric-lighted. Our obliging host had a special supper 
awaiting us, and our day of varied experience ended with 
a long look at Green Mountain in the starlight from our 
window. 

While we were waiting for Jerry the next morning, the 
clerk rehearsed enthusiastically the attractions of Bar 
Harbor, and asked us if we did not think the drive from 
Ellsworth very fine. He looked aghast when we frankly 
told him that, with the exception of the last mile or two, 
it was the least interesting twenty miles of our two 
weeks' driving — three hundred and fifty miles. We can 
readily imagine, however, how delightful it must seem to 
people who have been pent up in the city, and we do not 
doubt it would have had more charm for us if it had been 
a little cooler and the water had been at high tide. 

Even the mists, that would not be dispelled, could not 
dampen our enthusiasm on the famous ocean drive, 
although we almost despaired of seeing the ocean, and 
began to think it was like some river drives we have 
taken, without a river to be seen. When we at last came 
to the red rocky bluffs, so wonderfully beautiful, and then 
followed our winding way through a real mountain notch, 
we were in full sympathy with Bar Harbor enthusiasts. 

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We must now think of turning homeward. If inclina- 
tion had been considered, we would give you an account 
of a glorious return via Moosehead Lake, Dixville Notch 
and the White Mountains; but our time was limited by 
other plans, and we had already strayed too far from 
home to return even as we came. We must test Jerry as 
a sailor; and it seemed wise to make sure of a pleasant 
day, and not delay, for a storm was anticipated. The 
Olivette, a beautiful boat, ran from Bar Harbor direct to 
Boston, leaving at six in the afternoon, but we could 
leave at one o'clock on the Lewiston, and have the 
delightful sail along the coast to Rockland, and then 
change for the Bangor boat, due in Boston in the morn- 
ing, at the same time as the Olivette. The Lewiston was 
said to have better accommodations for horses too, and 
Jerry is always the majority with us. We packed oats 
for his supper, and a gay Bar Harbor blanket to insure 
his comfort, in the phaeton, and the man at the wharf 
tied up everything securely. We were weighed, because 
a man said we must be — everybody was weighed before 
leaving Bar Harbor — then went on board, everything 
promising a most delightful afternoon. 

We were full of anticipation, with map in hand ready 
to observe every point. Within ten minutes we were in a 
dense fog, and rolling as if we were in mid-ocean. We 
could barely discern the rocky bluffs along the ocean 
drive, which we so longed to see. It was clear in South- 
west Harbor, and we had a few views of the island as we 
touched at several points, for it was bright sunshine on 
shore ; then we sailed into the fog again denser than ever. 
A row boat came alongside, and we went on to the upper 

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deck to see passengers taken aboard. The wind blew 
furiously, and the deck was deserted with the excep- 
tion of a bridal couple, whom we had seen three times 
before, — meeting them as we went to Belfast, and again 
driving off the island as we drove on. They were on the 
wharf at one of the places we touched at Frenchman's 
Bay, and here they were again, having retraced their 
steps, the bridegroom told us, to take the sail along the 
coast once more, because his wife enjoyed it so much. 
The fog, however, was no respecter of persons, and, 
brides or not brides, we were all doomed to the same 
fate ; an afternoon sail with nothing to be seen but our- 
selves, and a rolling and tossing that called forth ominous 
prophecies from pessimistic passengers. We are glad 
we indulged to the utmost in optimistic hopes, for that 
was all there was bright about it. 

At Rockland we changed boats, and gladly, feeling 
that somehow the change of boats would change the 
atmosphere and still the restless waters. When our bags 
and wraps were deposited* in our stateroom, we went 
down to see Jerry. Any misgivings we had indulged in 
as to his state of mind were dispelled when we went 
towards him with the oats. He was all right surely. 

We went out on deck, but how the wind did blow! 
And the rolling, creaking and groaning increased as we 
went out to sea. More than once it seemed as if the boat 
fell from our feet, and left us standing amid air. One by 
one the passengers disappeared, and among the last 
stragglers, we took refuge in our stateroom. There was 
no inclination for preliminaries. We threw our hats on 
the upper berth, and camped down for the night's enter- 

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tainment. The pessimists had the satisfaction of being 
true prophets, but we still believe in optimism. 

The night was long, measured off by the fog horn, and 
our breath stopped once when suddenly the boat stood 
still and the machinery was silent. It was a real relief 
when the creaking and groaning began again, and we 
rolled on, resuming the tooting. We would not believe 
we slept a wink but for the fact we dreamed that, as we 
came near home, after our Bar Harbor to Boston sail, 
Jerry was independent and wayward, and swung round 
suddenly. One said, "Never mind, let it be a turn to the 
house the other way," but before we got there he swung 
round again, and then the driver was "up," and said, "He 
has got to mind, if I can make him." She drew up the 
reins with a grip that would have turned the Lewiston, 
and the result was that after much creaking and groan- 
ing of the old phaeton, Jerry was rolled up like a kitten 
in front of the carriage, and the "driver" was prostrate 
under the back wheels. The dreamer extended a hand to 
Jerry, and he touched it as graciously as any lord of the 
land, then arose and we three stood upright, unharmed; 
and so we did, after our three hundred miles' water trip, 
on the wharf in Boston at eight o'clock. 

The boatman attempted to harness Jerry, and the opti- 
mistic dreamer, sitting in the phaeton, had full faith in 
his land wisdom, but the driver came back from the boat 
office just in time to help him out of a very perplexing 
dilemma. He had placed the saddle, and was diligently 
searching for a place to put the crupper aiming towards 
the ears. The driver with some difficulty suppressed her 
amusement, as she readjusted the saddle. With a cheery 

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"Good-by, Jerry," the boatman returned to his sphere, 
and we were soon off for breakfast. 

Jerry was quite at home at the familiar stable in Mason 
street. After breaking our fast we gave the morning to 
shopping, and early in the afternoon we began a round 
of calls in Boston and vicinity, which kept us busy 
several days. We could not think of ending our delight- 
ful journey so abruptly as to be in Bar Harbor one day 
and in Leominster the next, as we might have done. 

We visited thirteen suburban towns, and could write 
a letter almost as long as this one without exhausting the 
charms of the Wayside Chapel in Maplewood, and the 
home of its owner under the same roof, which we enjoyed 
through a friend, who exclaimed as we called, "Oh, you 
are just in season to attend our daily fifteen minutes' ser- 
vice." It is the embodied long-cherished idea of a help- 
ful woman, and is full of the work of her own hands and 
brain, from the embroidered carpets and draperies, the 
allegorically painted walls, and fitting mottoes, to many 
of the books on her shelves. But all this you can go and 
see, for it is open to whomsoever wills to go in, without 
money and without price; a church with a creed of one 
word — Love. 

After this unexpected visit and service, we started off 
in pursuit of a hotel, and at sunset found ourselves at 
Woburn. This was not at all our intention ; we were not 
ready to go home yet, and drove back towards Boston 
the next morning for more calls, then faced about and 
took a two days' round-about for home, passing the old 
Wayside Inn in Sudbury on our way. We took our last 
dinner at the Lancaster House, called on friends, then 

209 

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drove around by Spec Pond, surprised the campers, and 
had a fine row in the "G. W.," whose hold on our 
affections is only strengthened by absence. We took 
Jerry camping for a week, later in the season, and he was 
a great acquisition to camp life, but we must pass by the 
delights of that week, even our visit to the Shakers, and 
hasten home over Rice hill. The view was never so 
lovely as in that sunset glow. Our journey ended in 
golden glory, but we still feel it was not complete; and 
from the queries of some of our friends, it would seem 
as if they thought we did not have "much of a journey," 
but it was one of our very best, and at Bar Harbor we 
were just the same distance from home in miles and time 
as we were at Berthier, Canada, two summers ago. It is 
all owing to that abrupt return by water, and sometime 
we hope to tell you how we drove to Boston, put Jerry 
on board boat for Bar Harbor, then finished up our Twen- 
tieth Phaeton Trip. 



210 



CHAPTER XIII. 

DEXVILLE NOTCH AND THE NORTH SHORE. 

"In a buggy" ! How strange that sounds ! Not half so 
nice as "in a phaeton." Even after such a delightful 
journey as we have had in a buggy (there never was a 
more ugly name for anything so nice), we grieve to tell 
you the dear old phaeton has gone; not to pieces, like the 
one-hoss shay, but to be initiated into a new life, with 
new associations and environments, which is often like 
the elixir of life to people, and may give our phaeton 
another quarter of a century. 

It went away a month before our journey, and every 
time we went to drive in the new buggy we found our- 
selves making comparisons. The seat is higher ; it is not 
upholstered on the side, and it seems as if we should fall 
out ; the floor is narrower. How strange it seems without 
shields — fenders, they say now! Then we would come 
to our senses and say, How foolish ! Really, this is luxu- 
rious — leaning back, which we could not do comfortably 
in the phaeton, without a shawl for a pillow — how much 
room there will be without the bags in front ! We shall 
enjoy it partly tipped back. How much lighter for Jerry ! 
It is nice; of course we shall like it. The old phaeton 
would look shabby enough beside it, with the dilapidated 
top and faded brown cushions, but the ease of a phaeton 
"hung round it still." What good times we did have in 
it! 

And then we would wonder who would have it, and 
fancy some poor man taking it, who lived a little out of 

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town, and had somebody's pet horse to keep until he died 
a natural death. Would the "auras" of those twenty 
journeys take shape as he jogged about ? They would be 
there, and if his eyes should be holden in his normal wak- 
ing condition, we felt sure, should he fall asleep on his 
way home some sultry summer night, his dreams would 
be like a running panorama without geographical order, 
if the pictures of our journeys appeared chronologically. 
Along the Connecticut River, with a view from Mt. Hoi- 
yoke, would be followed by Lake Winnipiseogee and the 
Isles of Shoals, Newport, Martha's Vineyard, Boston 
suburbs, Berkshire Hills, Hudson River, Green Moun- 
tains, Lake George, Saratoga, White Mountains, and 
Boston, Vermont, Canada, Franconia Notch, Old 
Orchard Beach, New Jersey, Dixville Notch, Catskill 
Mountains, Narragansett Pier and Bar Harbor! Would 
the poor man be able to locate himself at once, when 
aroused by the familiar sound of the horse's hoof on the 
barn floor? Ought we to tell him about it? We decided 
to entrust him to the manager of the panorama. 

We had at last to stop thinking of the dear old phaeton 
and adjust ourselves to the nice new buggy, for it 
required an entire change in packing arrangements. 
Things would not place themselves in the buggy, as they 
did in the phaeton from long habit. Bags must be found 
to fit the "box," and the wrench, oil and twine had to be 
put into what one might call an emergency bag — a Corn- 
ing is so different from a phaeton. We made some half- 
curtains to use in rainy weather, which take up much less 
room than the "sides," and do not shut out the view. By 

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the time we were ready for our journey we almost won- 
dered how we ever got along without a place for bags, 
things seemed so compact and out of the way. 

Why anyone should have mistrusted we were going 
farther than Spec Pond or Fitchburg when we drove up 
to the post office on the afternoon of June thirtieth we 
cannot imagine ; but a reporter did, and seized the oppor- 
tunity to interview us. We did not wish to leave town 
with the ill-will of anyone, and responded civilly to his 
many queries, but the entire information gained made a 
very brief item. Now, if we had told him we were going 
to Pepperell we should have falsified ourselves at the 
outset. We did think of spending the first night there, 
but a bridge up and a big thunder-cloud turned our 
course towards Townsend, and we reached the hotel just 
in time to escape a heavy shower. It cleared away, and 
after supper we drove on to Brookline, N. H., and were 
farther on our way, if our way lay north, than if we had 
gone to Pepperell. 

It is a pretty drive of twenty-four miles from Brook- 
line to Goffstown through Amherst, where we stopped 
for dinner. At Goffstown the landlord was not in, and 
even bells called forth no response, so we drove off to 
view the town. A second bold effort was more successful 
and brought to light the landlord, who had turned car- 
penter and was building a new kitchen. 

Twenty-eight miles the next day, through Concord, 
where we always spend a pleasant hour with friends, took 
us to Shaker Village, on the top of a hill, where we spent 
Sunday. When you have made one visit to the Canter- 

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bury Shakers you will not wonder that we have been 
there four times. It is a restful place, away from the 
world of turmoil, and the sisters are pleasant hostesses. 
They are free to investigate in any direction, and we 
talked of Theosophy and all the advanced ideas of today. 
Sunday morning a sister brought in several books for us 
to look over, and we lent her one, which she liked so 
much we left it with her, taking some Shaker pamphlets 
in exchange at her suggestion. 

We deemed it a special favor to be invited to attend 
meeting, as their services are not open to the public. If 
we had not such a long journey to tell you about, we 
would like to tell you of that meeting, which interested 
us very much. 

Last year we hurried along the coast to reach Old 
Orchard before the Fourth of July, as Jerry sometimes 
objects to fire crackers. This time we had fixed upon 
Weirs as a celebrating point, and after dinner with the 
Shakers, we started off for the eighteen miles' drive. We 
had not driven an hour before a fearfully ominous cloud 
loomed up, which grew blacker and blacker, and very 
ugly looking. We sped through the street of Belmont, 
and barely got inside the little hotel when the rain fell in 
sheets, and the lightning flashed in all directions. We 
watched the storm until the rain fell moderately, and the 
thunder rumbled in the distance, and then called for 
Jerry, for night would overtake us surely if we delayed 
longer. We drove briskly to Laconia, and then came a 
hard pull over roads repaired with sods. The sun was 
just setting when we surveyed Lake Winnipiseogee from 
the top of the hill which leads down to the Weirs, and the 

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clock struck eight as we entered the dining-room of the 
Lakeside House. 

Here we were entirely at home, and spent the morning 
of the Fourth strolling about to see the improvements 
and our friends, in their lovely new cottage by the lake. 
Everything seemed quiet by three o'clock, and after a 
consultation with Landlord Weeks, we decided the time 
had come for us to go to Squam Lake, which we had 
passed by so many times. Hundreds of people were 
enjoying that perfect day at Weirs, but they had forgot- 
ten all else for the time, and were crowded on the shore 
to see a man walk on the water. Jerry was not annoyed 
by a single cracker. The drive was very lovely, and the 
sunset views from the piazzas of the Asquam House, 
high above the lake, were not surpassed in all our 
journey. 

Our "way" evidently lay through the mountains, and 
we took a lingering look at Squam in the morning, and 
then were off for Plymouth. We forgot to tell you that 
we made a cricket for the new buggy, which was a great 
luxury, but we were not satisfied with the covering. At 
Plymouth we got a pretty piece of carpeting, and after 
our lunch by the wayside, near Livermore's Falls, we 
took the tacks and hammer from the "emergency bag," 
and upholstered it. The result was a great success. 

Now we were ready for the Pemigewassett Valley for 
the sixth time. It is a drive one can never weary of, for 
it is never twice alike. We found a new place for the 
night at North Woodstock. The house stood high above 
the street and commanded one of the finest views of the 
Franconia Mountains we have seen. We could just 

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distinguish the Flume House, five miles away, where we 
met friends as we drove through the Notch the next 
morning. 

We are always interested in the excursionists we meet 
"doing" the Notch, with its Flume, Pool and Basin, for 
the first time. We left the carriage to have a good look 
at the Old Man of the Mountain. We hope nothing will 
happen to the jagged rocks that make up that wonderful 
profile. We climbed Bald Mountain for the first time, 
taking our lunch on the way. Jerry had his dinner later 
at the Profile House farm. We spent the night at 
Littleton. 

A bright thought came to us here. How pleasant it 
would be to look in upon our friends at Lake Memphre- 
magog. Newport did not look far away on our map, but 
remembering those swampy, corduroy roads in northern 
Vermont, with stump-land for scenery, we decided we 
would drive the twenty miles to St. Johnsbury and then 
go by rail forty-five miles to Newport. It proved a very 
wise decision, for heavy rains had washed the roads, and 
the corduroy must have been impassable. Moreover, 
when we got to Newport we found for once our plans 
were frustrated, for no boats had been running for two 
weeks, as the water was so high they could not land any- 
where on the lake. News travels slowly in northern Ver- 
mont. We had made many inquiries at Littleton and St. 
Johnsbury, and were told the boats were running twice 
a day. We spent the night at the Memphremagog House, 
and gazed by moonlight towards Georgeville, twenty 
miles into Canada, where we had expected to spend the 

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evening with our friends, and thought of those "best laid 
plans." 

A pleasure we did not expect came to us, however, on 
that little side trip. Just as we stepped on the car at St. 
Johnsbury we were startled by a "Hulloa, Auntie F. !" 
We turned and saw two veritable tramps, with beaming 
faces. Who would have mistrusted they were college 
boys in high standing, as they stood there, with caps 
pushed back, and tents, knapsacks, spiders, canteens, 
and who knows what not, strapped on their backs? We 
"four tramps" took possession of the rear of the car and 
talked over the family news, for they had left home that 
morning, and we had been driving a week. They were 
full of plans for tramping and camping through Canada, 
and quite likely some of you may have read their inter- 
esting letters telling of their experiences via Montreal to 
New Brunswick. They camped at Newport that night 
and called on us at the Memphremagog House the next 
morning. 

We were prompted to go to the post office before leav- 
ing Newport and got a letter which it seemed must have 
been projected by occult means, for how otherwise could 
one have reached there so soon ? That is always a pleas- 
ure, and we took the train for St. Johnsbury, quite con- 
tent, all things considered, with an outing of ninety miles 
by rail. Later in the season an office boy in a hotel in 
New Hampshire asked if he had not seen us somewhere 
in northern Vermont. We told him we had been there. 
"Well," he said, "I thought you looked natural, and that 
I saw you there canvassing for Bibles !" 

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14000 MILES 

We began our journey a week before by driving to 
Lunenburg, Mass., and about three hours after parting 
with our two tramps at Newport, we began it over again 
at St. Johnsbury, turning Jerry towards Lunenburg, Vt. 
We thought we would try our chances next in northern 
New Hampshire. We had driven perhaps half the 
twenty miles to Lunenburg, when another of those 
ominous clouds appeared, and just at the right time we 
came to a large barn on a farm, but no house was within 
a mile. At one end of the barn facing the road was an 
open shed, with places to tie several horses, and a large 
sign-board, "Public Shelter Shed." At one side was a 
fine water trough and another sign, "Nice Spring Water 
— Drink Hearty." The customary broken goblet was 
close at hand. Several children were there, with quanti- 
ties of wild strawberries. They sat on the grass with 
their lunch, and after taking ours we added some culti- 
vated strawberries to their pails, and they started on the 
run for the little station nearly a mile away. We hope 
they were safely under cover before the shower came. 
As we waited there, while the thunder, lightning and rain 
held high carnival, we sent winged thoughts of gratitude 
to the thoughtful man to whom we were indebted for 
shelter. 

Having been delayed by the shower, and finding 
Lunenburg so attractive, we stopped there for the night 
instead of crossing the Connecticut to Lancaster, N. H. 
Several years ago we explored Dixville Notch, a little 
south of Connecticut Lake in northern New Hampshire, 
and have ever since talked of going again to get some of 
that lovely moss for Christmas cards. We shall never 

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forget the lovely drive along the Connecticut, after leav- 
ing the White Mountains many miles behind us. Then 
we drove on the New Hampshire side and looked over 
into Vermont. As we were now in Vermont we drove 
up on that side and looked across into New Hampshire. 
A new railroad had taken the old road by the river in 
many places, and the new road was cut high above, 
which gave us some fine views. At one time we saw 
showers before us and back of us and only a stray drop 
fell where we were. 

We drove twenty-eight miles that day, and spent the 
night at North Stratford. We slept very well, notwith- 
standing the cars almost grazed our room as they 
rounded the corner. 

The next morning we were off, with our eyes on the 
alert for the first glimpse of "The Nirvana." At Littleton 
we got a copy of "Among the Clouds," and were much 
interested in the description and picture of a wonderfully 
fine hotel, fifteen hundred feet above the level of the sea, 
at Colebrook, which was to open soon. We concluded we 
were not fitted to enter Nirvana, for the terms were to be 
from $4 to $7 a day, but we could look up to it as we 
passed by. 

Long before we reached Colebrook we saw its towers 
and gables resting against the sky, and from the old hotel 
in Colebrook, which had been much improved since we 
were there, it looked just above our heads. There is a 
fine drive completed to the top of the bluff; but while 
waiting for dinner we strolled up the short path through 
the woods, hardly five minutes' walk. We found the 
house really "open," for money had given out when it was 

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14000 MILES 

but a skeleton ; but we reveled in the possibilities of "The 
Nirvana." We climbed ladders, and saw it in embryo, 
lest we might not be admitted when in its perfected 
state. Every room commanded most beautiful views. 
From one window we looked along the Mohawk River to 
Dixville Notch, following the ten miles' drive we were to 
have that afternoon. 

A good dinner awaited us, when we came down to the 
hotel, and as we drove along the Mohawk Valley, after 
Jerry's rest, we turned back many times for another 
glimpse of the beautiful outline against the sky. 

Once in Dixville Notch, all else is forgotten in the still- 
ness and beauty. The hotel was undergoing repairs, and 
many attractions were assuming form under the guiding 
hand of the landlady. We waited for a bed to be set up 
in a room radiant in freshly tinted walls and Japanese 
matting, and immediately fell into the spirit of repairs 
with the two or three guests, who were continually lend- 
ing a hand. The house is supplied with water from a 
brook which comes tumbling down the mountain just 
back of the house. You cannot imagine anything more 
fascinating than the rustic camps that have been built by 
regular patrons of this secluded spot, at a little distance 
apart quite a way up the glen, with little bridges span- 
ning the rocky stream. Hammocks and camp couches 
with real springs, were suggestive of a miniature Nir- 
vana, which is more easily attained than Nirvana on the 
Heights. 

The moon was in full glory that night, and the morning 
dawned fair for the Notch drive. As Jerry was brought 
to the door, our hostess asked if we would take a few cir- 

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culars. The few proved fifty, and thereafter we enclosed 
one in every letter. We have still a few left. We heartily 
assent to all the good that is said of Dixville. Yes, we 
found more of that moss, so lovely for Christmas cards. 
We walked most of the two miles through the Notch 
looking for it. 

We took dinner at a large three-story hotel in the 
wilderness kept mainly for the "river drivers," whom we 
were much interested to hear about. The Androscoggin 
is full of logs, and river-driving in the spring must be 
quite lively. We somehow missed the interpretation of 
the guideboards, and pulled up a hill two and a half miles 
long on the wrong road that hot afternoon. We were 
obliged to retrace our steps and take the turn just the 
other side of the hotel where we dined. Then came the 
well remembered fourteen miles along the Androscoggin, 
through the woods, and a night at "Chandler's," one of 
the half-dozen houses to be seen on the plain as we 
emerged from the woods. 

Great improvements had been made since we were 
there seven years ago. That was the place where we had 
a room on the first floor, without a lock on window or 
door, and a "transient" in the room adjoining. Now the 
two rooms were one, with a curtained arch between, and 
the front room furnished as a parlor, with a piano. We 
reveled in our royal apartments in this wild, river-driving 
country, and did not mind much the smudge on the 
piazza to keep the black flies away. We delayed start- 
ing away as long as we could in the morning. 

Mrs. Chandler gave us lunch for ourselves and Jerry, 
and we looked for a wayside camp; but not even the 

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shady side of a rock could we find, and it was very hot. 
It was getting late for Jerry, and in despair of doing bet- 
ter, we asked permission to drive into a barn. We were 
just unharnessing, when the owner drove in with his milk 
wagon, and insisted on helping us, and was so urgent, 
that after taking our lunch in the carriage, we went into 
the sitting-room, where we could be "more comfortable." 
He came in and rocked the baby, while his wife prepared 
dinner, and when left to ourselves, we went out on the 
piazza, which was like a conservatory. After their din- 
ner, the man and his wife brought out chairs, and we had 
quite a little visit. We had something to talk about, for 
a boy who began his career very humbly near us, was a 
high school teacher in that vicinity, and much esteemed 
as a citizen. We were interested to hear of him. 

Jerry fared as well as we did, and was fresh for the 
drive to Gorham, where we received and answered our 
mail, watching a ball game at the same time from our 
window. 

The next morning was a bright one for our drive 
through Pinkham Notch. We passed the Glen House 
too early for dinner, but had been told there was a little 
place beyond where we could get something for ourselves 
and Jerry, and visit Crystal Cascade. While waiting we 
came to a barn, which looked inviting for Jerry, but our 
chance seemed small, when we glanced into the open 
door of a tiny board cottage, where sat a thin, pale woman 
with a wee baby, and a book. A little girl of daft appear- 
ance, in a slow drawling tone, assured us that was the 
only place, and spoke to her mother, who had not seemed 
to notice us. She said her husband had gone to pilot a 

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party to the Ravine, and she had nothing but cookies in 
the house, but we could put Jerry in the barn and find the 
oats, and she would make us hot biscuit. We did not 
wish to trouble her so much, and asked if she could 
give us milk with the cookies? It proved a delicious 
lunch. Such cookies and such milk ! We were charmed 
with the "campish" air of the room. The baby had been 
put to sleep in a hammock, swung across one corner. 
Behind a door we espied a bookcase well-filled, and spoke 
of it. The thin, pale woman brightened up, full of inter- 
est, and said the books belonged to the little girl who had 
just said to us, in that same drawling tone, "I — like — to 
— play — ball — better — than — any — thing — else." We 
were amazed to learn of her passion for books, which had 
prompted the mountain visitors to give them to her. A 
favorite book was "John Halifax." Our attention was 
attracted to another case containing a full set of Cham- 
bers's Encyclopaedia. She said some thought the "Brit- 
tany" was the best, but she liked that. In a closet were 
two more shelves of books — all good books, too. Milk, 
cookies, a hammock and books ! Another Nirvana, to be 
sure. 

We skipped up the path to Crystal Cascade, and there 
alone, a half-mile from the cottage, sat a woman on a 
rock overlooking the cascade, with her knitting and a 
book. Nirvana again? Her party had gone on to the 
Ravine. 

Two miles farther down the Notch we left the carriage 
and ran along the walk, and up and down the flights of 
steps to take a look at Glen Ellis Falls. All these side 
attractions of Pinkham Notch we missed when we drove 

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through on our September mountain trip, in deep mud 
and heavy mist. 

Jackson was at its best this time. We watched the 
twilight sky from the piazza of a friend's studio on the 
grounds of Gray's Inn, and spe.nt a delightful hour in the 
morning with the beauties of nature brought indoors by 
her skilful hand. It was an ideal studio, with its little 
garden in front, and vine-covered porch. 

We passed most of the day in Jackson, driving to 
North Conway in the latter part of the afternoon. To 
shorten the drive of the next day, we drove two miles 
beyond the town and stopped at Moat Mountain House, 
a favorite place for lovers of fine scenery. Mt. Wash- 
ington was particularly fine from our window. 

Thirty miles, via Tamworth and Madison, stopping at 
Silver Lake House for dinner, brought us to Moulton- 
boro. The hotel was closed, and we will pass lightly 
over the accommodations (?) and experiences of that 
night, assuring you we were ready for an early departure, 
to meet the nine o'clock boat at Centre Harbor for a sail 
through the lovely Winnipiseogee, to Alton Bay. This 
was Jerry's treat, as well as ours. He is a good sailor. 
The courteous captain looked out for his comfort and for 
our pleasure, calling our attention to all points of interest. 
We dined at Alton Bay and then Jerry was fresh for a 
brisk drive of eighteen miles to Rochester, where we 
found pleasant quarters for Sunday, fifty-three miles 
away from Moultonboro. 

The mountains were now well behind us, and we 
turned our thoughts towards Old Ocean, only thirty 

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miles away. We spent a night at Dover, calling on 
friends, and camped one noon in Greenland, an ideal 
farming town. We tied Jerry to a fence by the roadside, 
and we took the liberty to enjoy the shade of a tree the 
other side of the fence. As we were taking our lunch, we 
heard a slight noise, and turned just in time to see Jerry 
in mid air, leaping the bars. He believed in equal rights, 
and having obtained them at the expense of so much 
effort, we let him stay with us. A guilty conscience 
needs no accuser, and when we saw an elderly woman 
guarded by two young people, coming down the road, 
we were sure they were after trespassers, and went out 
to meet them. They probably fancie.d Jerry running riot 
in their mowing, but we had kept him with us under the 
tree, where the grass had not flourished. When we told 
them how he came there, they were much interested, and 
we had a very pleasant chat on his and our own exploits. 

We got as near the ocean as possible, by spending the 
night at Boar's Head, enjoying the evening with a friend 
we found there; we divided our attention between the 
ocean and the stars. 

"Of course they will go to Boston," had been quoted 
in a letter from home. Well, why not? What could be 
more charming than a drive along the North Shore from 
Boar's Head to Boston? We could see our friends in 
Newburyport and spend a night in Gloucester, and take 
again that superb drive through Magnolia, Manchester- 
by-the-Sea and Beverly Farms, to Salem. And so we did, 
and from Salem we drove to Swampscott, spending a 
night most delightfully at the Lincoln House. The heat 

225 

15 



14000 MILES 

had been intense, but here it was so cool we put on our 
jackets and walked the piazza briskly to get warm. 

What led us to brave the; heat on Crescent Beach the 
next day we cannot imagine, but to our regret we found 
ourselves there, watching the whirling horses, and the 
rollicking bathers, while Jerry had his mid-day rest. A 
hot drive in the afternoon, with a call in Maplewood on 
our way to Boston, finished up the day begun so cool at 
Swampscott. 

It was too warm to linger in a city, and we turned 
towards home, making several calls on the way. We did 
not follow the old turnpike, but digressed; and found a 
new place for the last night of our journey. We; found 
old friends in the new place, however; one, a prominent 
preacher, was in a hammock under an apple tree, with a 
ponderous book — his definition of Nirvana quite likely. 

The small old-fashioned hotel had been modernized and 
made attractive by colored service and "course" dinners. 
We were interested to learn that the town has no Queen 
Anne houses, no telegraph, no telephone, no fire depart- 
ment, no doctor, no minister, and no money-order office 
within four miles. We will not break faith with the 
friends who confided all this to us by giving the name of 
the remarkable place, only sixteen miles from Boston, 
for they like it just as it is. 

We took our last dinner at the Lancaster House, and 
recognized in the proprietor the quaint old man who kept 
the hotel in Goffstown, N. H., when we were there sev- 
eral years ago, and who did so much for our comfort. 
More pleasant meetings with friends, and then we drove 
to Leominster via Spec Pond, and had a row in the "G. 

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14000 MILES 

W." A sunset drive over Rice Hill, which has a charm 
of its own, that even Mount Washington cannot rival, 
was a fitting close to our truly delightful journey. 

Another six hundred and fifty miles to be added to the 
several thousands we have driven up and down New 
England, with now and then a turn in New York State 
and Canada! 



227 



CHAPTER XIV. 

THE KENNEBEC JOURNEY. 

"I should think you would give up your carriage 
journey this year, and go to the World's Fair." 

We cannot tell you how many times this was said to 
us, but often enough to become trite. Give up a carriage 
journey when we had not missed one for more than 
twenty summers ! What an idea ! Our friends could go 
to the World's Fair, and tell us many things, and -we 
could read volumes about it, but who could take a 
carriage journey for us? 

All that is neither here nor there, however, for we 
believe things will be as they are to be, and for all -we 
knew the journey, and Fair too, were in store for us. So 
we waited until our summer program should be revealed 
to us. For a time it seemed as if "Home, Sweet Home" 
would claim us, but the way cleared after a while, and a 
two weeks' journey with Jerry began to assume form. 
Two weeks are better than none, but where could we go 
in two weeks? Through the mountains, to be sure, but 
when we go to the mountains, we like to go via Dixville 
Notch or Boston, and take a month for it. Berkshire 
came next to mind, but we like to take those unsurpassed 
drives at the beginning or end of a long journey. We 
were perplexed, and wondered what we were to do. 

In such times of doubt, we usually drive to Boston and 
there await revelation. Since this last experience we 
shall always be ready to trust Boston's oracular power, 

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14000 MILES 

for it there came to us to take passage for Bath, Maine, 
on the boat which left Boston at six o'clock Wednesday 
evening, July twelfth. 

This beginning seems as abrupt as the ending of our 
trip two years ago, when we drove over two weeks to 
reach Bar Harbor, and sailed back to Boston in a night. 
For the sake of beginning a carriage journey on terra 
firma, we will go back a bit, and tell you we had already 
enjoyed two days' journeying. We left Leominster 
Monday morning, July tenth, driving to Lancaster the 
back way, to say good morning to the campers at Spec- 
tacle Pond. 

Jerry had two hours rest, and the time passed quickly 
with us, for we met friends at dinner at the Lancaster 
House, and spent a half hour studying a collection of 
fine etchings in the music room, where Mr. Closson was 
to lecture in the evening. 

We went out of our way to spend the night at Way- 
land Inn, and made calls on friends along the way to Bos- 
ton the next day. 

The special medium of revelation as to our next move 
was the Sunday Globe given us by the campers, in which 
our eyes chanced to rest on an advertisement of an 
excursion to Nova Scotia. This seemed hardly feasible, 
though we actually gave it consideration, as it was 
stated the roads there were good for driving. This was 
only a "leader" to what was foreordained for us. It must 
be it was foreordained, for our best friend so declared it 
in writing us, and surely from the moment we decided to 
take the boat for Bath, everything went like clock-work. 

We thought best to go to the wharf, on arriving in 

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14000 MILES 

Boston, to make some inquiries, and secure a stateroom. 
We drove on Beacon Street as far as we could, as we 
came in from Watertown via Allston, then made a bold 
plunge into the tangles of carts, carriages, and cars 
across Tremont street down Bromfield, through Wash- 
ington to State, then in and out, on and on, Jerry fully 
realizing the importance of his movements, and using 
his abundant good sense in sparing his nose from the 
grazing of the wheels that crossed his path, until we 
finally saw the welcome sign, far down Atlantic avenue. 
Once safely in the office of the Kennebec Steamship 
Company, going to Bath seemed the simplest thing in 
the world. We were assured Jerry would have the best of 
care, and a stateroom was secured for the next night. 
Some one else will have to tell you how we got back to 
our destination for the night. We are inadequate beyond 
saying we went back another way. Quite likely Jerry 
knows every turn, but he is silent on the subject. 

A good night had restored our shaken equilibrium, and 
we went down town on a shopping expedition, also to 
get any mail that might have been forwarded to Miles & 
Thompson's in West street. We thought we had too 
much time, and idled it away "looking" at things, until at 
last we had to hasten back to dinner, without having 
done our chief errand — replaced our broken hand 
mirror. That idling was a mistake ; idling always is. Al- 
though we hurried dinner, and hurried the letters we 
ought to have written before dinner, the mail wagon 
drove away from the Back Bay post office, just as we 
drove to the door. 

We profited by this lesson, and took a straight course, 

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14000 MILES 

that is as straight as one can take in Boston, for the 
boat. The way we knew was the straightest for us, and 
we repeated the intricate drive of Tuesday afternoon, 
through Beacon, Tremont, Bromfield and State streets 
to Atlantic avenue. We were on deck an hour and a 
half ahead of time, but it began to rain, and we were glad 
Jerry and the buggy were under cover. 

The abruptness of our story having been remedied, we 
will now proceed to Bath as speedily as possible, but it 
takes all night, so there is plenty of time to tell you of 
something of that part of our journey. We found a dry 
corner on deck, and watched the passengers as they came 
on board. A Sister of Charity was sitting not far from us, 
and an every-day looking man went to her, and said 
"You're a 'Sister/ ain't you?" and offered his hand as he 
took a stool by her. He was quite deaf, and the attention 
was evidently embarrassing. As soon as she could with- 
out seeming rude, the Sister rose quietly and went inside. 
In a few moments she came out again, and took a seat by 
us, and we chatted together until driven to the cabin by 
the rain, which finally found our corner. 

The sound of music attracted us to the other end of the 
boat, where a blind man was entertaining the passengers 
with song and story combined. After our experience, we 
marveled when he said that though blind he could not 
lose his way in Boston. As his fingers flew over the 
piano keys, we wondered if it was necessary to be blind, 
in order to navigate Boston, and hit every note on the 
piano with never a miss. 

Before going to our room, we went to see that Jerry 
was all right. The man who took him on board piloted us 

231 



14000 MILES 

to his stall, and on the way back showed us the furnaces 
and the machinery. He interested us with his apprecia- 
tion of the mighty silent power. He said he often went 
in alone, and watched it, and felt awed by the wonderful 
working of each part, the perfect action of even the 
minutest being essential to the whole. 

We were obliged to take an inside stateroom, but 
found it very comfortable, and there was an opening 
heavenward just large enough for us to see one star, 
which told us the rain was over. We arose soon after 
three to be sure of the sunrise, and were out on deck as 
we stopped at Popham Beach, at the mouth of the Kenne- 
bec River. The apples we bought on Atlantic avenue 
were a timely refreshment, and the sail up the river, 
with the sunrise, was ample compensation for our effort. 
At five o'clock we landed at Bath, and Jerry's friend har- 
nessed him for us, saying courteously, as he handed us 
the reins, "Whenever you come this way again call for 
the second mate." 

The drive through the main street of Bath at that early 
hour was a decided contrast to our drive to the boat in 
Boston. It seemed as if the morning was half spent, and 
we could hardly realize that our waiting in the parlor of 
the hotel was for a six o'clock breakfast. At our table 
we recognized the faces of the bride and bridegroom, 
whose path we crossed four times on our Bar Harbor trip 
two years ago. 

After doing justice to that early feast, we went out 
once more for a hand mirror, as we were tired of looking 
cracked. Next door to the hotel we found one that just 

232 



14000 MILES 

suited us, and several other little things as well, among 
them a penholder, which we purchased in memory of the 
one we lost in Bath two years ago. 

At eight o'clock all was ready for the thirty-four miles 
drive up the Kennebec to Augusta. The day was lovely 
and cool, and we need not say the scenery was fine. We 
dined at Richmond, and spent the night at the Augusta 
House. 

Thirty-two miles the next day, still following the river, 
taking dinner at Waterville, brought us to Norridgewock, 
which was full of interest to us, from descriptions so 
often given us by friends, of the old-time beauty. It is 
one of the few places where we would like to stay, had 
we time to delay. The Kennebec runs close by the main 
street, and the large covered bridge is opposite the hotel. 
We walked to the middle of the bridge to watch the sun- 
set clouds, and feast our eyes on the view up the river. 
As the light faded we strolled down the main street, 
which is overarched by old willows. We measured 
the largest, walking around it with a handkerchief, just 
twenty-four lengths, twenty-three feet and four inches, a 
grand old trunk. 

The wife of the proprietor brought some pictures of 
the town to our room in the evening, and promised us a 
drive in the morning. 

We rested well in our pretty blue room, and were 
ready for the drive, after leaving Jerry with the black- 
smith. We were taken to the river's edge for one view, 
and to Sunset Rock for another. All the places we wished 
to see, and others we did not know of were pointed out to 

233 



14000 MILES 

us, and we were sure if people only knew about it, the 
Quinnebassett House would be full of those who like a 
quiet, comfortable resting place. 

We spend only one night in a place, and are usually 
ready to go on, but we left Norridgewock reluctantly, and 
were only consoled for turning away from the lovely 
Kennebec, by promising ourselves to drive to Norridge- 
wock again some time, and follow still farther up the 
river. Maine cannot be exhausted in many trips, and we 
have some fine ones growing in our mind. Every journey 
makes a better one possible. 

We must now face about for this time, and we aimed 
next for the Androscoggin, driving first to Farmington, 
then turning south, crossing the Androscoggin on one of 
those scow ferries run along a wire, that old Charlie dis- 
liked so much. He was not a good sailor, like Jerry, who 
can hardly wait for the scow to touch the shore, before 
he leaps on. 

We should have told you, before crossing the ferry, 
about our quiet Sunday at a farm house. The man was 
reading his paper as we drove up, and it seemed almost 
too bad to disturb their Sunday rest, but his wife said we 
could stay if we would take them "as they were." We 
were soon settled in a cosy parlor with bedroom adjoin- 
ing, away from all sights and sounds of the busy world. 
We felt as if we were miles from everywhere, and you 
can imagine our surprise when the man said that he came 
down from Boston on the boat with us, and recognized 
us when we drove to the door. 

Monday morning we left our kind host and hostess, 
with directions for Strickland's ferry. We have already 

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140 0.0 MILES 

taken you across, but we did not mention our ferryman. 
We do not remember now just what he said, but we set 
him down for a philosopher. All that ride and philos- 
ophy for ten cents ! We thought it worth twenty-five at 
least, but he said some grumbled at ten. 

Now we renewed our acquaintance with the Andro- 
scoggin, which we followed so many miles on one jour- 
ney farther north. We wondered where all the logs were, 
and found out all about it from a boy who brought us 
milk, and entertained us while we had our first and only 
wayside camp at noon day. Our Sunday hostess had put 
up luncheon for us, as we were not to pass through any 
village on our way to Lewiston. Our boy friend took us 
down to a little beach on the river, and showed us where 
the river drivers had been for a week, but they were 
then at work half a mile below. We had often 
seen a river full of logs, and heard much about 
the river drivers, when in Maine and northern New 
Hampshire, but this was our first opportunity to see 
them at work. They were just coming from their tents 
after dinner, as we drove along. One of them tied Jerry 
for us, and conducted us to a nice place on the rocks. 
We watched them nearly an hour, and concluded it took 
brains to untangle the snarls of logs. It was quite excit- 
ing to see them jump from log to log with their spiked 
boots, and when the last of a snarl was started, leap into 
a boat and paddle off for another tangle. The river was 
low, and it was slow work getting them over the rocks. 

The drive to Lewiston was over a sandy road. We 
met two boys puffing along on their wheels, who asked 
us if it was sandy all the way up. We were sorry we 

235 



14000 MILES 

could not cheer their hearts, by telling them the road was 
level and hard before them. We spent the night at 
Auburn, across the river from Lewiston, as the Elm 
House looked attractive. At the suggestion of the pro- 
prietor we took a horse car ride in the evening around the 
figure 8, one loop being in Lewiston and the other in 
Auburn. The horses must have been electrified, for we 
never rode so fast except by electricity, and we returned 
to our room quite refreshed. 

Poland Springs was our next point of interest, and we 
were well repaid for our drive to the top of the hill, where 
the immense hotel when filled must be a little world in 
itself, for all sorts and conditions of men are attracted 
there. We met Boston friends who invited us to the 
morning concert, in the music room. After dinner we 
climbed to the cupola for the view, then ordered Jerry 
and were off again. Sabbath Day Pond, which lay along 
our way, is fittingly named. It has no look of a weekday- 
pond, but is a crystal, clear, peaceful perfection, that is 
indescribable. The Parker House at Gray Corner 
afforded us every needful comfort, even to a hammock in 
the side yard through the twilight. 

Now we began to lay aside — not forget — the things 
that were behind, and to strain our eyes for the first 
glimpse of the ocean. Portland was only sixteen miles 
away, and as we had left the sand, it did not seem long 
before we drove to the Portland post office and got home 
letters, always so welcome, then to the Preble House for 
dinner. 

There was one place on the coast, that we skipped 
before, and now we proposed to explore Prouts Neck — 

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14000 MILES 

nine miles from Portland; but we did not leave the city 
until we had seen the good friends who entertained us 
so hospitably when we attended a meeting there. A 
storm cloud was over us, but we got only the last drops 
of a shower, that laid the dust all the way to Prouts 
Neck. 

We were glad this lovely spot had been reserved for us 
until then, for we could not have seen it under a finer 
sky. We walked to the Rocks, piloted by a young lady, 
who knew all the paths through the woods, and we were 
fascinated with the path near the Rocks, over which the 
wild roses and low evergreens closed as soon as we 
passed through. We sat on the piazza watching Mt. 
Washington in the distance until the sunset sky grew 
gray, and finished up the pleasant evening in the cosy 
room of friends from Boston. 

We saw them off in the morning for a day at Old 
Orchard, and then went on our way, through Saco and 
Biddeford to Kennebunkport, which also has its Rocks 
and many attractions. Spouting Rock was not spouting, 
but we saw where it would spout sixty feet in the air, 
when spouting time came. 

The next morning we saw once again the friends we 
never pass by, at Kennebunk, and visited the old elm 
under which Lafayette is said to have taken lunch, when 
on a visit here after the Revolution. Night found us at 
another favorite resort, York Harbor, and the charms 
and comforts of the Albracca made us forget the heat and 
dust which a land breeze had made very oppressive 
during the day. 

While we were at dinner at the Rockingham, Ports- 

237 



14000 MILES 

mouth, the next day, a black cloud spent its wild fury in a 
few terrific gusts of wind. All was over when we started 
on our afternoon drive, but when half way to Hampton, 
the clouds grew black again, and we had barely time to 
drop the back curtain, put on the sides and unfasten the 
boot, before a tempest was upon us; a tempest of wind 
and rain — not a common rain, but pelting drops with 
thunder and lightning. We read afterwards that a 
buggy was blown over not many miles from us, but ours 
withstood the gale, and Jerry did well, although it seemed 
almost impossible at times for him to go on against the 
storm. We drove away from the shower and all was 
calm when we got to the Whittier House, Hampton, one 
of our homelike stopping places. 

We followed along the coast to Newburyport, and 
then the Merrimac River enticed us inland. The expe- 
rience of the afternoon previous was repeated on our way 
from Haverhill to Andover. We were scarcely prepared, 
before another tempest burst upon us, the rain this time 
driving straight in our faces. It was soon over, however, 
and we reached Andover unharmed. 

We were now only a day's drive from home, but Bos- 
ton is only twenty miles from Andover and as our mail 
reported all well, we could not resist going the longest 
way round to do another errand or two in Boston, and 
call on our friends in Reading and Maplewood on the 
way. 

The drive from Maiden to Boston is distracting, with 
little that is pleasant to offset the turmoil of the streets. 
We thought we could leave Jerry at the old stable in 
Mason street, while we went shopping, but like every- 

238 



14000 MILES 

thing else in these days, the stable had "moved on." 
When we found a place for him it was late. We did not 
idle this time, for it was so near five o'clock that 
gates were half closed, and a man stood at every door as 
if to say, "You can come out, but you cannot go in." 

The drive next morning was very fine. We went out 
on Beacon street to Chestnut Hill Reservoir, then drove 
on the new Commonwealth avenue as far as we could on 
our way to Allston. Whatever Scripture may say about 
the "broad way," we shall surely risk our lives on that 
one as often as we have opportunity. 

From Allston we retraced our first two days' driving, 
making our journey like a circle with a handle. We 
called on the same friends along the way, spent the night 
at Wayland Inn, dined with the same friends at the Lan- 
caster House, and called on the campers at Spectacle 
Pond. There was a slight variation in the return trip, 
however, in the form of a tornado, which passed over 
South Lancaster. We might have been "in it" if we had 
not stopped twenty minutes or more to sketch a very 
peculiar tree trunk, between Sudbury and Stow. There 
were nine huge oaks in a row, and every one showed 
signs of having been strangely perverted in its early 
growth, as if bent down to make a fence, perhaps; but 
later in life showed its innate goodness by growing an 
upright and shapely tree out of its horizontal trunk. 

We called one journey a cemetery journey because we 
visited so many cemeteries, and another a ministerial 
journey because we met so many ministers. Trees were 
a marked feature of this journey. We saw many beauti- 
ful trees beside the big willow in Norridgewock, the 

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14000 MILES 

Lafayette Elm in Kennebunk, and now sketching the 
curious oak had possibly saved us harm from a beautiful 
maple, for we had not driven many miles before 

i we struck the track of the gale, where large trees were 

§ torn apart, or uprooted. We had driven through the 

thunder shower, or rather it seemed to sweep quickly 
past us, the pelting rain lasting only a few moments, but 

f as our direction turned we found a large maple across the 

road. We were obliged to go two miles farther round to 
reach the Lancaster House, and we had not driven far 

; before the road was obstructed by another large tree. 

* This time we could drive round through a field, and a 
\ third time, a large fallen branch had been cut and the 

• way cleared. We rejoiced that the Great Elm stood 
unharmed, though mutilated trees were on each side 

> of it. 

Giant willows, historic elms, upright oaks from hori- 

' zontal trunks, glorious maples and elms laid low, and 

scores of noble though not distinguished trees, that we 
admired and shall remember as we do pleasant people we 
meet, together with the fact that the greater part of our 
driving was in the grand old Pine Tree state, warrants 
us in calling this most delightful journey our Tree 
Journey. 

T 

I 



240 



CHAPTER XV. 

ON HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS. 
1894 to 1904. 

In response to many requests to share this journey 
with our friends as we used, the spirit has moved us to 
give you first an inkling of our annual trips for the ten 
years since our last report. 

This is easily done, for we have a book in which is 
recorded the name given to each journey, the name of 
every town we pass through, with distance from place 
to place, and the sum total of time, distance and expense 
of each journey. This goes with us, and is a valuable 
book of reference. The revolver still goes with us, too, 
the one thing we take but never use. Our electric hand- 
lamp, on the contrary, is very useful. The Kennebec 
journey was followed by our first visit to Nantucket, 
leaving our horse at New Bedford, and once again pro- 
longing the return trip to Leominster by driving to 
Boston. This journey had a memorable postscript: We 
drove to Boston for a day or two in the autumn and were 
detained eleven days by that terrific November snow 
storm, and even then the last thirty miles of the return 
trip it was good sleighing ! 

A September mountain trip, "The Figure 8" we named 
it, comes next in order, followed by a Jefferson and Jack- 
son trip, and then a Massachusetts journey, which is 
always delightful. 

The three ranges of the Green Mountains, with their 

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14000 MILES 

"gulf" roads, was a journey unsurpassed, and from Cape 
Ann to Mt. Tom was another interesting journey in our 
own state, followed by a Cape Cod trip, which completed 
the coast for us from New Haven to Bar Harbor. 

By this time we were ready for another journey to 
Lake George, Saratoga, and the Berkshires, and the next 
trip through the mountains was exceptionally fine, as we 
returned via Sebago Lake, Portland and the coast, being 
just in time for the September surf. 

The following journey "capped the climax," seemingly, 
when we crossed the Green Mountains, ferried Lake 
Champlain to Ticonderoga, and drove to Eagle, Paradox 
and Schroon Lakes in the Adirondack region, returning" 
to Lake George, thence to the Berkshire towns and as 
far south as Hartford, Connecticut, a superb drive of five 
hundred miles. 

Most of our journeys have covered more than four 
hundred miles, and we are frequently asked if we have 
done all this with one horse. No, there was handsome 
black Charlie, Old Nick, who liked to lie down in harness 
now and then, bay Charlie, who had the longest record — 
ten years — and was best loved and least trusted, faithful, 
serious Jerry, whose long strides took us so easily 
through the country, saucy and exasperatingly lazy 
Bess, who could do so well, and altogether worthy Nan, 
whose two journeys have not revealed a fault. 

"Do you plan your journeys?" is another question 
often asked. Never, except the Cape Cod trip, and we 
observed the innovation by having a letter party. 
Imagine the pleasure of receiving thirty or more letters at 
the tip end of Cape Cod, and of mailing an answer to the 

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last one at Plymouth on the way home ! We have many 
times driven from home to the post office packed for a 
three or four weeks' journey, without the faintest idea 
where we should go, and even sat there in the buggy 
fifteen or twenty minutes trying to decide which way 
we would leave town. 

Our journeys make themselves and we thought this 
summer's journey was not going to be worthy of men- 
tion, but would simply preserve the record unbroken. 
We could spare but two weeks, and we were never more 
at a loss what to do with it. Maine came to mind most 
frequently, and we finally faced in that direction, spend- 
ing the first night at the Groton Inn. Of course, facing 
Maine-ward the Isles of Shoals lay in our way as a side 
attraction, and as it was many years since we had been 
there, we left our horse at Portsmouth, and took the boat 
to Appledore, where we found the friends we hoped to 
meet. After dinner and a walk to Celia Thaxter's resting 
place, we returned on the afternoon boat to Portsmouth. 
Our horse was waiting for us at the wharf, and we drove 
on to Eliot, Me., where Green-Acre attracted us. 

A visit to Green-Acre alone would be enough for a 
summer's outing, even if one were limited to the exoteric 
interests of life — this beautiful acre of green on the 
banks of the Piscataqua River, the finely located Inn, 
with its hospitality, and the glorious sunsets — what 
more could one desire? But if you have chanced to be, 
or wish to be, initiated into the esoteric mysteries, what 
a feast ! 

Unfortunately Miss Farmer, the organizer and secre- 
tary of Green-Acre, was away for a few days, but we had 

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a brief sunset meeting sitting on the river bank, a very 
fine reading in the parlor in the evening, from Long- 
fellow and Lowell, an early morning gathering on the 
piazza of the Eirenion — House of Peace — when Brown- 
ing and Emerson were beautifully read and interpreted, 
and a later session under Lysekloster Pines, a half mile 
away through the fields, where the meetings of the Mon- 
salvat School are held. This was a novel experience, sit- 
ting on the dry brown needles, under the low, broad- 
spreading branches of a mammoth pine, listening to the 
wisdom of an Indian teacher. 

We were loth to leave the tempting program, "The 
Oneness of Mankind," by Mirza Abul Fazl, and Mirza 
AH Kuli Khan, next morning in the Pines, and later 
"Man, the Master of His Own Destiny," by Swami 
Rami; in truth a whole summer's feast of reason and 
music, but our journey was waiting. 

We had scarcely left the Inn after dinner, before mut- 
tering thunder gave us warning, and a shower came up 
so quickly we barely had time to drive under a shed back 
of the village church before the floods came down. The 
shower was violent, but did not last very long, and when 
the rain was over, we drove on. We were utterly in 
doubt where we were being led until at the first glimpse 
of a distant mountain peak our entire journey was 
revealed to us — a trip through Sebago Lake, then on to 
Jefferson Highlands, and home through Crawford Notch 
and Lake Winnipiseogee ! We had not a doubt or mis- 
giving after the revelation. We had at last struck our 
trail ! 

According to the revelation, Sebago Lake was the first 

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point of note, but the incidents along the way, the pretty- 
woodsy roads, the ponds and brooks, the camping near a 
farmhouse at noon, and the small country hotels, with 
their hospitable hosts, make up by far the larger part of 
a carriage journey. When we answered our host, who 
asked where we had driven from that day, he said, 
"Green-Acre? That's the place where Buddhists confirm 
people in their error," adding "there's only one kind of 
good people — good Christian men and women." 

We were packing up wraps and waterproofs after a 
shower, when a white-haired farmer came from the field 
and asked if we were in trouble. We told him we 
were "clearing up" so as to look better. "Oh, pride, is it?" 
he said, and asked where we came from. He seemed so 
much interested that we also told him where we were 
going — it was just after the "revelation." He was very 
appreciative and wished us a hearty Godspeed. The inci- 
dent was suggestive of the universal brotherhood to be, in 
the millennium. At a point on the Saco we saw logs leap- 
ing a dam like a lot of jubilant divers — singly, and by 
twos and threes. 

We had an early drive of eight miles to meet the boat 
at Sebago Lake, and on the way there was a slight break 
in the harness. We drove back a short distance, hoping 
to find the rosette lost from the head band, and finally 
tied it up with a string. This delayed us more than we 
realized and when we drove to a hotel near the wharf and 
were waiting for the proprietor, we asked a guest of the 
house what time the boat was to leave. He answered 
quickly, "Now! run! I will take care of your horse!" 
We ran, and not until we were fairly on board did it 

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14000 MILES 

occur to us that we had not told him who we were, where 
we came from, or when we should return. It did not 
matter, however, as the names on whip and writing tablet 
would give all that was needful in case of necessity or 
curiosity. 

The day was perfect, there was a pleasant company on 
board the Longfellow, Sebago Lake was all one could 
wish for a morning's sail, and the Songo River, with its 
twenty-seven turns in six miles, although only two and 
a half miles "as the bird flies," fascinating beyond all 
anticipation. Passing through the locks was a novelty 
and the Bay of Naples as lovely as its name suggests. 
Then came the sail through Long Lake to Harrison, the 
terminus, where the boat stayed long enough for us to 
stroll up the street and go to the post office, and then we 
had all this over again, enjoying the afternoon sail even 
more than that of the morning. 

This was a round trip of seventy miles, and it was too 
late when we returned to drive farther, as we had 
planned, but we were off early next morning, the buggy 
scrupulously clean, and with a new head band and 
rosette. We hoped Nan's pride was not hurt by wearing 
a plain A on one side of her head, and an old English S 
on the other ! 

We drove up the east side of Sebago Lake, passed the 
Bay of Naples, and on through the various towns on 
Long Lake, and at night found ourselves at the Songo 
House, North Bridgton, just a mile and a half across the 
end of the lake from Harrison, where we posted cards the 
day before at noon. 

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14000 MILES 

The following day we turned our thoughts from lakes, 
bays and rivers, and faced the mountains, which are 
never more enjoyable than when approaching them. We 
retraced our route of two years ago, but there is a great 
difference between driving towards the mountains and 
away from them. As we drove on through the Water- 
fords, Albany, West Bethel and Gilead, the views were 
finer every hour, and at Shelburne we had a most 
beautiful sunset, and watched the after-glow a long time 
from a high bluff. 

The rain clouds of the night vanished after a few 
sprinkles, leaving only delicate misty caps on the high- 
est peaks, and the day was perfect for the famous drive 
from Gorham to Jefferson, so close to the mountains of 
the Presidential range, along through Randolph. The 
afternoon drive over Cherry Mountain to Fabyan's was 
never more lovely. We feasted on wild strawberries as 
we walked up and down the long hills through the 
woods. 

That this was the tenth time we had driven through 
the White Mountains did not in the least diminish their 
charm for us. On the contrary, they have become like 
old friends. To walk up and down the steep pitches 
through Crawford Notch, leading the horse, listening 
at every turnout for mountain wagons, and this year for 
automobiles, would be a delight every year. Our youth- 
ful impression of a notch as a level pass between two 
mountains was so strong, the steep pitches are a lovely 
surprise every time. 

The old Willey House was one of our favorite resting 

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14000 MILES 

places. We are glad the driveway and barn were spared 
when the house was burned, and we still stop there to 
give our horse her noon rest. 

After the "pitches," the rest at old Willey, and a snap 
shot at the ruins, come the miles and miles of driving 
through the dense woods, with high mountains on either 
side, the way made cheery by the sunlight glimmering 
through the treetops, and the music of the babbling 
brooks. 

At Bartlett we received a large forwarded mail, the 
first for ten days, which we read as we drove on to 
North Conway, and we were grateful for the good news 
which came from every direction. 

After leaving North Conway and getting our first 
glimpse of Chocorua's rugged peak, there was no more 
regretful looking backward. Chocorua in its lofty lone- 
liness is all-absorbing. We had an ideal mid-day camp 
on the shores of the beautiful Chocorua lake at the base 
of the mountain. 

After two hours of concentrated admiration of the 
rocky peak, what wonder we were hypnotized, and that 
on leaving the lake with one mind we confidently took 
the turn that would have led us to the summit in time! 
Having driven a distance which we knew should have 
brought us to the next village, we began to suspect 
something was wrong. There was nothing to do but to 
go on, for there was not a turn to right or left, and not a 
house in sight. We were surely on a main road to some- 
where, so we kept on, until we met a farmer driving, who 
brought us to our senses. We were miles out of our 
way, but by following his directions in the course of the 

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afternoon we arrived safely at our destination for the 
night. 

Immediately we took our books and writing-tablet, 
and climbed to a summer house on a knoll just above the 
hotel, commanding a magnificent view of Chocorua, also 
Passaconaway, White Face, Sandwich Dome, and sev- 
eral others of the range. After supper we returned to 
the knoll for the sunset, and later were interested in 
what was thought to be a bonfire at the Appalachian 
camp on the summit of Passaconaway, lingering until 
the outlines were lost in the darkness. 

We were up before six o'clock and went to the ham- 
mock in the summer house before breakfast, and if it had 
not been such a beautiful day for the sail through Lake 
Winnipiseogee, we would have been strongly tempted 
to stay over at this homelike place, the Swift River 
House, Tamworth Village, New Hampshire, opened only 
last year, and already attracting lovers of fishing and 
hunting. 

A drive of seventeen miles with Chocorua in the back- 
ground, and raspberries in abundance by the wayside, 
brought us to Centre Harbor, where we took the boat for 
Alton Bay. A trip through Lake Winnipiseogee sitting 
in the buggy in the bow of the Mt. Washington, is an 
indescribable pleasure, and even our horse seemed to 
enjoy it, after she became accustomed to the new expe- 
rience. On the way we had our parting glimpses of Mt. 
Washington and Chocorua. 

With this glorious sail the "revelation" was fulfilled, 
and the one hundred miles — or nearly that — between 
us and home was like the quiet evening after an eventful 
day. 249 



14000 MILES 

For more than two hundred and fifty miles we had 
been away from the trolleys, and the busy world, among 
the mountains and lakes, and recreation lovers every- 
where, from the tent on the river bank to the large 
mountain houses. Now came the familiar ways through 
the country towns and villages, the gathering and press- 
ing wild flowers for Christmas cards, catching a pretty 
picture with the camera, and a drive along the Merrimac 
in the cool of the morning, the atmosphere clear as 
crystal after another dry shower, when clouds 
threatened but gave no rain. 

Then there were the lovely camping places at noon, 
the hospitable farmers, and the pleasant chats in the 
kitchen while our spoons were being washed — the 
souvenir spoons that were presented to us with a poem 
after our twenty-fifth journey. One bright young 
woman discovered the silver we left when we returned 
the milk pitcher and glasses, and came after us, forcing 
it into our hands, telling us not to dare leave it, but come 
again and she would give us a gallon. At another place 
where we asked permission to stop in a little grove, the 
farmer came out and set up a table for us, and gave us use 
of a hammock. We prolonged our stay to the utmost 
limit — nearly three hours — reading in the buggy and 
hammock under the fragrant pines, our horse tied close 
by, nodding and "swishing" the flies. We have an 
amusing reminder of that camp, for we had posed Nan 
for the camera, and just as it snapped she dashed her 
nose into one of the paper bags on the table. 

A notable experience in the latter part of every jour- 
ney is a visit to the blacksmith, and it came, as often 

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14000 MILES 

before, unexpectedly on the way. The chatting that 
goes with the shoeing would be good material for Mary 
Wilkins. 

At last came a rainy day, without which no journey 
is quite complete. We had a leisure morning with our 
books, and after an early dinner enjoyed an easy, com- 
fortable drive in the rain, which ended our journey of 
more than four hundred miles in two weeks and two 
days. 



251 



CHAPTER XVI. 

LAKE MEMPHREMAGOG. 

We did not think to give you a report of this journey, 
but the day before we left home little books called 
Wheeling Notes were given us, with pages for day, 
route, time, distance and expense, and pages opposite 
for remarks. 

These little books we packed in our writing tablet, and 
Friday afternoon, June 30th, we began our journey. 
Besides the note-books we had an odometer and a car- 
riage clock, in addition to our usual equipment. Nat- 
urally we were much absorbed in our new possessions, 
and the remarks, in diary form have become so interest- 
ing to us that we gladly share them. 

July 2 — Rainy. Dropped in a back seat in a village 
church; only nineteen present. The little minister is a 
Bulgarian, and inquired for two classmates in Leomin- 
ster. We practiced all day on pronouncing his name, and 
could say it quite glibly by time for evening service. 
He is very loyal to his adopted country, and urged all 
to make as much noise as possible all day on the Fourth. 
Not a boy or girl was there to hear such welcome advice, 
and we wondered if the parents would tell them. 

July 3 — Drove all day. Mr. RadoslavofFs advice 
must have sped on wings, for the noise began early, and 
kept up all night. Three huge bonfires in front of the 
hotel at midnight made our room look as if on fire. 

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14000 MILES 

July 4 — Somewhere between the southern and north- 
ern boundary of New Hampshire there is a park, the 
fame of which reached us several years ago, and we 
have had in mind to visit it some time. This year seemed 
to be the time, as, by our map, it was right on our way 
north. On making inquiries, we found it would give us 
five or six miles extra driving to go through the park, 
and the day being hot it took considerable wise arguing 
to make the vote unanimous. Importunity, however, will 
sometimes bring about at least acquiescent unanimity. 

Suffice to say, we went through the park and now we 
are truly unanimous, and will give you the benefit of our 
experience. There is probably no town in New England 
that has not attractions enough, within reach of a walk 
or short drive, to last all summer for those who go to 
one place for recreation and change. But if you are 
driving the length of New Hampshire, Vermont or any 
other state, do not be beguiled by accounts of pretty 
by-roads, cascades, water-falls, whirlpools or parks, even 
one of 30,000 acres, with 26 miles of wire fence, 180 
buffaloes, 200 elks, 1000 wild hogs, moose, and deer 
beyond counting. You may do as we did, drive miles 
by the park before and after driving five miles inside, 
and see only twelve buffaloes, one fox, a tiny squirrel 
and a bird — yes, and drive over a mountain beside, the 
park trip having turned us from the main highway. For 
a few miles the grass-grown road was very fascinat- 
ing, but when we found we were actually crossing a 
mountain spur and the road was mainly rocks, with deep 
mud holes filled in with bushes, we began to realize the 

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folly of leaving our good main road for a park. To 
be sure, we might not see buffaloes, but we do see part- 
ridge, woodchucks, wild rabbits, snakes, golden robins 
and crows, and once, three deer were right in our path! 
jf; And really we think we would prefer meeting a drove of 

i cattle on the main road, to having a big moose follow 

us through the park, as has occurred, and might have 
again, if it had not been at mid-day, when they go into 

'' the woods. 

Finally, our advice is, in extended driving, keep to the 
main highway, with miles of woodsy driving every day, 
as fascinating as any Lovers' Lane, with ponds and lakes 
innumerable, and occasional cascades so near that the 
roaring keeps one awake all night. Then we have a 

: day's drive, perhaps, of unsurpassed beauty, which no 

' ( wire fence can enclose, as along the Connecticut River 

valley on the Vermont side with an unbroken view of 
New Hampshire hills, Moosilauke in full view, and the 

: ; tip of Lafayette in the distance, the silvery, leisurely 

Connecticut dividing the two states and the green and 
yellow fields in the foreground completing the picture. 
No State Reservation or Park System can compete 
with it. 

July 5 — We were in a small country hotel, kept by an 
elderly couple, without much "help," and our hostess 
served us at supper. When she came in with a cup of 
tea in each hand, we expressed our regret that we did not 
tell her neither of us drink tea. She looked surprised and 
said she supposed she was the only old lady who did not 

take tea. 

"0 wad some power the giftie gie us 

To see oursels as others see us!" 

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14000 MILES 

July 6 — Received our first mail at Wells River, Vt., 
and as all was well at home, we began to plan our 
journey. For a week we had simply faced north day 
after day. If we kept right on we would come to New- 
port and Lake Memphremagog, which to us means the 
Barrows camp, but we need a month for that trip. A 
bright idea solved the problem. We drove north until 
we reached St. Johnsbury, left our horse there and took 
a morning train for Newport, where we connect with the 
Lady of the Lake for Georgeville, P. Q. 

At the boat landing at Newport we met Mr. and Mrs. 
Barrows just starting for Europe. They insisted that we 
must go on to Cedar Lodge for the night, and make a 
wedding call on their daughter, recently married in camp, 
and forthwith put us in the charge of camp friends, who 
were there to see them off. The sail to Georgeville was 
very delightful. We were then driven two miles to the 
camp in the forest of cedars, and presented to the 
hostess, a niece of Mrs. Barrows, who gave us a friendly 
welcome. 

The attractions of Cedar Lodge are bewildering. The 
one small log cabin we reveled in a few years ago is 
supplanted by a cabin which must be sixty or seventy 
feet in length, with a broad piazza still wearing the wed- 
ding decorations of cedar. Near the center is a wide 
entrance to a hallway, with a fireplace, bookcase, and 
hand loom, the fruits of which are on the floors, tables, 
couches, and in the doorways. At the right is the camp 
parlor, called the Flag room, draped with colors of all 
nations. It is spacious, with a fireplace, center reading 
table, book shelves, pictures, writing desk, typewriter, 

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14000 MILES 

comfortable chairs, and a seat with cushions, the entire 
length of the glass front facing the piazza and lake. 

On the left is the Blue China or dining room. Here is 
a very large round table, the center of which revolves 
for convenience in serving, a fireplace with cranes and 
kettles, and a hospitable inscription on a large wooden 
panel above. The telephone, too, has found its way to 
camp since we were there. 

Not least in interest, by any means, is the culinary de- 
partment. Instead of a cooking tent, where Mrs. 
Barrows used to read Greek or Spanish while preparing 
the cereal for breakfast, and a brook running through 
the camp for a refrigerator, there is a piazza partially 
enclosed back of the Blue China room, with tables, 
shelves, kerosene stoves, and three large tanks filled 
with cold spring water, continually running, one of 
which served as refrigerator, tin pails being suspended 
in it. The waste water is conveyed in a rustic trough 
some distance from the cabin and drips twenty feet or 
more into a mossy dell, where forget-me-nots grow in 
abundance. 

Just outside the end door of the Flag room are flights 
of stairs to the Lookout on the roof. This stairway sep- 
arates the main cabin from a row of smaller cabins, 
designated Faith, Hope, and Charity, in rustic letters. 
(We were assigned to Hope, and hope we can go again 
some time.) 

These cabins are connected by piazzas with several 
others, one being Mrs. Barrows' Wee-bit-housie. A 
winding path through the woods leads to Mr. Barrows' 
Hermitage, or study, close by the lake, and another path 

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14000 MILES 

up the slope back of the cabins leads to a group of tents 
called The Elfin Circle. 

We went to the bath wharf, followed the brook walk 
through the cedars, strolled to the hill-top cabin to see 
the friends who escorted us from Newport, and then we 
all met at supper, on the broad piazza, seventeen of us. 
The last of the wedding guests had left that morning. 
After supper we descended the steps to the boat landing, 
and our hostess and the best man rowed us to Birchbay 
for the wedding call. Though unexpected we were most 
cordially received, served with ice cream, and shown the 
many improvements in the camp we first visited years 
ago. We walked to the tennis court and garden, where 
the college professor and manager of Greek plays were 
working when no response came from the repeated tele- 
phone calls to tell them we were coming. We rowed 
back by moonlight. 

We cannot half tell you of the charms of Cedar Lodge, 
but when we were driven from Georgeville a bundle of 
papers was tucked under the seat, which proved to be 
Boston Transcripts, containing an account of the wed- 
ding. A copy was given us and it is such an exquisite 
pen picture we pass it along to you : 



From the Transcript, July 6, 1905. 

A CAMP WEDDING. 

On the last Wednesday of June Miss Mabel Hay 
Barrows, the daughter of Hon. Samuel J. Barrows and 
Mrs. Isabel C. Barrows, two very well-known figures in 
the intellectual life of Boston and New York, was 

257 

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14000 MILES 

married to Mr. Henry Raymond Mussey, a young pro- 
fessor at Bryn Mawr. And the ceremony, which took 
place at Cedar Lodge, her mother's summer camp, was 
one of the most original and picturesque which it is pos- 
sible to imagine. Miss Barrows herself is a girl with a 
refreshingly individual outlook upon life, and with a 
great variety of interests, as well as a strong dramatic 
instinct, and every one who knew her well looked for- 
ward to this wedding as promising to be an occasion at 
once unique and beautiful. And they were not disap- 
pointed, those eighty odd guests, who traveled so far, 
from east, west, north and south, to the little camp snug- 
gled away among the sympathetic trees bordering the 
Indian Lake, beyond the Canadian border. 

Cedar Lodge, the Barrows' camp, crowns a beautiful 
wooded slope above the lake, a steep climb by a winding 
path bringing one to the log cabin, with its broad piazza 
facing the sunset and overlooking the lake, through 
misty tree tops which still wear the tender freshness of 
hymeneal June. At either end of this ample balcony the 
guests were seated at four o'clock of that perfect Wed- 
nesday, leaving space in the center for the bridal party, 
of which there was as yet no visible sign. 

Promptly at four one heard, far below, echoing poet- 
ically from the lake, the first notes of a bugle sounding a 
wedding march. It was the signal that the bridal party 
was approaching, and the guests began to tingle with 
excitement. Nearer and nearer, came the bugle, and at 
last through the green birch and alder and hemlock came 
the gleam of white — a living ribbon winding among the 

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14000 MILES 

trees. As the procession approached, zigzagging up the 
steep path, it was very effective, suggesting an old Greek 
chorus, or a festival group from some poetic page, as 
why should it not, the bride being herself an ancient 
Greek in spirit, with her translations of the classics and 
her profession as stage manager of Hellenic dramas? 
The bridal party, a score and eight in number, was all in 
white, with touches of red, camp colors. First came the 
bugler, blowing manfully. After him two white flower 
girls, scattering daisies along the path. Then followed 
the two head ushers, white from top to toe, with daisy 
chains wreathing their shoulders in Samoan fashion. 
Next, with flowing black academic robes, a striking con- 
trast of color, climbed the two ministers — one the bride's 
father, the other a local clergyman, whose word, since 
this was a "foreign country," was necessary to legalize 
the bond. Two more ushers preceded the groom and his 
best man in white attire ; and bridesmaids, two and two, 
with a maid of honor, escorted the bride, who walked 
with her mother. 

As for the bride herself, surely no other ever wore garb 
so quaint and pretty. Her dress was of beautiful white 
silk, simply shirred and hemstitched, the web woven by 
hand in Greece and brought thence by Miss Barrows 
herself during a trip in search of material and antiqua- 
rian data for her Greek plays. The gown was short, 
giving a glimpse of white shoes and open-work stock- 
ings — part of her mother's bridal wear on her own wed- 
ding day, of which this was an anniversary. The bridal 
veil was a scarf of filmy white liberty, with an exquisite 

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hand-painted border of pale pink roses. It was worn 
Greek fashion, bound about the head with a fillet, garland 
of red partridge berries and the twisted vine. In one 
hand she carried a bouquet of forget-me-nots and maiden- 
hair; in the other an alpenstock of cedar, peeled white, 
as did the rest of the party. As they wound slowly up 
through the beautiful wild grove, with the lake gleaming 
through the green behind them and the bugle blowing 
softly, it was hard to realize that this was Canada in the 
year 1905, and not Greece in some poetic ante-Christian 
age, or Fairyland itself in an Endymion dream. 

So with sweet solemnity they wound up to the crest of 
the hill, passed through the cabin, and came out into the 
sunlit space on the balcony, the flower girls strewing 
daisies as a carpet for the bridal pair, who advanced and 
stood before the minister, the other white-robed figures 
forming a picturesque semi-circle about them. 

The ceremony was brief and simple; the exchange of 
vows and rings ; a prayer by each of the clergymen and a 
benediction; the hymn "O Perfect Love" sung by the 
bridal party. Then Mr. and Mrs. Mussey stood ready to 
receive their friends in quite the orthodox way. But 
surely no other bride and groom ever stood with such 
glorious background of tree and lake, ineffable blue sky 
and distant purple mountains, while the air was sweet 
with the odor of Canadian flowers, which seem to be 
richer in perfume than ours, and melodious with the song 
of countless birds, which seemed especially sympathetic, 
as birds in Fairyland and in ancient Greece were fabled 
to be. 

After a gay half hour of congratulations, general chat- 

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14000 MILES 

ter and refreshments, came word that the wedding party 
was to move once more, this time to escort the bride and 
groom down to the lake, where waited the bridal canoe. 

Again the white procession passed the green slope, but 
this time merrily, in careless order, escorted by the 
guests, who were eager to see the wedded couple start 
upon their brief journey. For the honeymoon was to be 
spent at Birchbay, another camp hidden like a nest 
among the trees a mile farther down the lake. The 
bridal canoe, painted white and lined with crimson, 
wreathed with green and flying the British flag astern, 
waited at the slip. Amid cheers and good wishes the 
lovers embarked and paddled away down the lake, 
disappearing at last around a green point to the south. 
A second canoe, containing the bride's father and 
mother, and a bride and groom-elect, soon to be else- 
where wed, escorted the couple to their new home, where 
they are to be left in happy seclusion for so long as they 
may elect. And so ended the most romantic wedding 
which Lake Memphremagog ever witnessed; a wedding 
which will never be forgotten by any present — save, 
perhaps, the youngest guest, aged two months. 

On the following morning the little company of friends 
gathered in that far-off corner of America — a most 
interesting company of all nationalities and religions, 
professions and interests — began to scatter again to the 
four quarters of the globe — to California, Chicago, Bos- 
ton, Europe, Florida and New York, and in a few days 
only the camps and their permanent summer colony will 
tarry to enjoy the beauties of that wonderful spot. But 
whether visible or invisible to the other less blissful 

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14000 MILES 

wights, the bride and groom still remain in their bower, 
among though not of them. And Romance and June 
linger along the lake, like a spell. A. F. B. 



July 8.— The Cedar Lodge bird concert aroused us 
betimes, and after breakfast in the Blue China room, we 
were driven to Georgeville. The morning sail was even 
finer than that of the afternoon before. The car ride of 
forty-five miles from Newport brought us to St. Johns- 
bury in season for a drive of ten miles to Waterford, for 
our last night in Vermont. 

July 10. — Camped two hours on the top of Sugar Hill, 
with a glorious view of the mountain ranges and sur- 
rounding country, then drove down to Franconia for the 
night, near the Notch. 

July 11. — Everything perfect! Cooler after the suc- 
cessive days of heat, the fine roads through the woods 
freshened as from recent showers. Echo Lake, the Pro- 
file House and cottages, Profile Lake and the Old Man, 
whose stony face is grand as ever, the Pemigewassett, 
clear as crystal, tumbling over the whitened rocks, the 
Basin, Pool and Flume — all these attractions of the 
Franconia Notch drive were never more beautiful. We 
left our horse at the Flume House stables and walked 
the mile to the end of the Flume, along the board walks, 
through the narrow gorge where the boulder once hung, 
and climbed higher yet the rocks above the cascade. The 
afternoon drive of seventeen miles through North Wood- 
stock and Thornton brought us to Campton for the night. 

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14000 MILES 

July 12. — Drove from Campton to the Weirs. We 
well remember the zigzag roads from Plymouth up and 
down the steepest hills, and today they seemed steeper 
and longer than ever, for thunder showers were all about 
us. We stopped an hour at a farmhouse, thinking they 
were surely coming near, and from this high point 
watched the scattering of the showers, by the lake and 
high hills. We then drove into one, concealed by a hill, 
and got our first and only wetting on the journey. Two 
beautiful rainbows compensated. 

We were cordially welcomed at the Lakeside House at 
Weirs, where we have been so many times and always 
feel at hime. Here we found our second mail, and sent 
greeting to many friends associated with Lake Winni- 
piseogee. 

July 14. — Spent the night at Sunapee Lake, where we 
were refreshed by cool breezes. A year ago this date we 
were at Sebago Lake, Me. 

July 15. — A brisk shower just after breakfast made 
our morning drive one of the pleasantest, the first five 
miles through lovely woods, with glimpses of the lake. 
We spent an hour at a blacksmith shop before going to 
the hotel at Antrim for the night, and had to ask to have 
the buggy left in the sun it was so cool! While there 
we read of the disastrous thunder showers everywhere, 
except on our route, which had broken the spell of ex- 
cessive heat. 

July 16. — A perfect Sunday morning and a glorious 
drive — lonely, we were told, and perhaps so on a cold, 
dark day, but no way could be lonely on such a day. The 

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roads were narrow, sometimes grass-grown, with the 
trees over-reaching, and a profusion of white blossoms 
bordered the roadside. 

Exclamations of surprise greeted us as we drove to the 
cottage by the lake, where we spent the rainy Sunday 
two weeks ago. We took snap shots of our friends and 
left messages for those soon to join them for the summer. 
We do not tell you where this restful spot is, for some- 
how we feel more in sympathy with our friends who like 
the seclusion, than with the man who would like to 
"boom" the place, and asked us to mention he had land 
to sell. 

July 17. — Another bright day! What wonderful 
weather! And how lovely the drive over Dublin hills 
overlooking the lake, with beautiful summer homes all 
along the way and varying views of Monadnock! 

July 18. — Took a parting snap shot of Monadnock, 
for the sun shone on this last day of our journey, as it 
has done on every other — except that first rainy Sunday, 
when stopping over for the rain brought us at just the 
right time at every point on the trip. 

According to record of distances in Wheeling Notes, 
we have journeyed five hundred and forty miles, over 
four hundred by carriage, and the time record is two 
weeks and five days. If odometers and carriage clocks 
had been in vogue from the beginning of our journey- 
ing, the sum total recorded would be about 14000 
MILES, and nearly two years in time. A journey now 
would seem incomplete without a note-book tucked be- 
hind the cushion, for remarks along the way. 



264 



POSTSCRIPT. 

BUGGY JOTTINGS OF A SEVEN HUNDRED MILES DRIVE. 
CIRCUIT OP THE NEW ENGLAND STATES. 

Postscripts in general are not considered good form, 
but this one is exceptional, and may be pardoned by vir- 
tue of its length. This book did not exist to "material 
sense," until after this journey, but it existed in mind, and 
even more tangibly in the manuscript, which we took 
along with us for the final reading before placing it in 
the printer's hands. We had guarded the precious pages 
for some weeks, many times having tied it up with the 
diary, ready to be snatched at an earthquake's notice. 
• Book-reading had been a lifetime pleasure, but book- 
making was entirely new to us, and we were greatly 
interested in the work of detail — the preparation of man- 
uscript, form of type, Gothic or old French style, paper, 
modern and antique, leaves cut or uncut, "reproduction 
of Ruskin," everything in fact from cover to copyright. 

The notes of more than 14000 miles in addition to the 
seven hundred miles driving made this journey one of 
unusual interest. 

As usual we had no plan beyond going north for a 
month's drive, a longer time than we have taken for sev- 
eral years. At the last moment, as it invariably happens 
when we have had some particular direction in mind, we 
decided to go south, spend Sunday with friends in Rhode 
Island, and take a turn in Connecticut before facing north. 

We left home on the afternoon of June 22, Friday 

265 



14000 MILES 

being a day of good omen to us, surprised friends in 
Chapinville with a carriage call, spent the night at West- 
boro, telephoned our coming from Woonsocket, and were 
with our friends in Pawtucket before six o'clock Satur- 
day night. Our horse rested Sunday, but our cousins 
gave us a long and very enjoyable drive, showing the 
places of interest about the city suburbs, giving us a 
glimpse of Narragansett Bay, a fine view of Providence, 
and a general idea of their drives, so different from our 
home drives with the many hills. 

We were advised to go to Providence, four miles south 
of Pawtucket, to get the best roads westward, for our 
turn in Connecticut. Had we been really wise we would 
have followed this advice, but being wise in our own con- 
ceit only, we followed our map, and took a course directly 
west, aiming for the Connecticut River. We started 
early Monday morning. As we drove on, we were 
directed one way and another to strike better roads, 
until after a day's drive we brought up at a hotel in 
North Scituate, just ten miles from Providence ! Then we 
realized our folly in not going to Providence in the morn- 
ing, wondered why we were so opposed to going there, 
and after discussing the problem as we sat in the buggy 
in the stable yard, for it was too late to go to the next 
hotel, we concluded our journey would not be complete 
unless it included Providence. A happy thought then 
struck us. We recalled the landlord, who had left us when 
we seemed so undecided, secured rooms for the night, 
deposited our baggage, and took the next car, which 
passed the hotel, and in an hour left us at Shepherd's 
rear door in Providence. We went about the wonderful 

266 



14000 MILES 

store, got the glass we wanted so much, and took the 
return car, being extremely fortunate in standing all the 
way in the vestibule with only twelve, the inside being 
much more crowded, owing to a circus. We faced the 
open window, and thoroughly enjoyed the ride in the 
bracing breeze, which restored our much disturbed men- 
tal equilibrium and made us declare that things come 
out right, if you let them alone. 

We fully appreciated the late supper served by our 
obliging hostess, passed a very comfortable night, and 
again with the same dogged persistency faced westward. 
We crossed the state line, which was as definitely 
marked by the instant change in the general character of 
the roads, as by the pink line which divides Rhode Island 
from Connecticut on our map. We were thinking of 
going straight west until we reached the Connecticut 
River, then driving northwest to Norfolk, the second 
Lenox we discovered three years ago, and from there to 
Great Barrington and up through Stockbridge, Lenox, 
and all those lovely Berkshire towns. 

After several miles of cross-roads we began to consider 
and wondered if we were not foolish to go so far west 
just to go through the Berkshires, which we knew by 
heart already. We decided to compromise, and turn 
north earlier, going to Springfield and up the Westfield 
River to the northern Berkshire region. A few miles 
more of criss-cross roads and we experienced full conver- 
sion, and said, "Why go further westward, when by 
turning north now we will see some towns we do not 
know?" 

We were delighted with this new plan, especially when 

267 



14000 MILES 

we came to Pomfret street, which seemed to us a second 
Norfolk, and when after being sent from one place to 
another for the night, we found ourselves at Mrs. 
Mathewson's "Lakeside" in South Woodstock, with Mrs. 
Mott as present hostess. We now fully believed what 
we have often suspected, that we do not always do our 
own planning. You will not find this place on the adver- 
tised lists, but those who have been there for twenty 
summers, and those who are drawn there as we were, 
keep the house more than full. 

For the first time we had the pleasure of meeting with 
one who had passed the century mark. He said he 
should like to apply as our driver ! They were interested 
in our wanderings, and Mrs. Mathewson exclaimed, 
"Why don't you make a book?" How could we help 
confessing that was just what we were going to do on 
our return? "Oh, I want to subscribe," she said. We 
were much gratified, and told her she would be number 
three, and represent Connecticut. Before we left home 
a Michigan cousin, who was east for the Christian 
Science church dedication in Boston, had begged to head 
the list, and a mutual cousin in Pawtucket asked to 
represent Rhode Island. 

We sat on the piazza with the other Lakeside guests 
until a late hour, and all the ophies and isms, sciences, 
Christian and otherwise, were touched upon. 

The turn in Connecticut ended most satisfactorily, and 
the next morning's drive took us over another State line, 
but just when we entered our native state we do not 
know, for we missed the boundary stone. We were aim- 
ing for Keene, New Hampshire, eager for our first mail, 

268 



14000 MILES 

and as we passed within a half day's drive of our starting 
point, in crossing Massachusetts, we felt as if the loop of 
one hundred and sixty miles was a sort of prologue to 
our journey. We had a wayside camp with a stone wall 
for a table, and we washed our spoons at the farm house 
where we got milk. 

At the hotel where we spent our first night last year, 
we were remembered and most cordially received. After 
breakfast the next morning our hostess showed us their 
rare collection of antiques. Showers threatened and we 
took dinner and wrote letters at the Monadnock House, 
in Troy, New Hampshire, having crossed another State 
line, then hurried on to Keene, where we found a large 
mail, full of good news. 

Among the letters was one from a nephew, adding four 
subscriptions to our book for the privilege of being num- 
ber four, and so you see our list was started and growing 
as our plans are made, not altogether by ourselves. 

While reading our letters we noticed our horse rested 
one foot, and as we drove away from the post office, she 
was a little lame. We had eleven miles of hilly driving 
before us, and as the lameness increased in the first half 
mile, we returned to a blacksmith, remembering Charlie 
and the sand under his shoe, which came near spoiling 
one journey. Again sand was the trouble, which was 
remedied by the blacksmith, and once more we started 
for Munsonville and Granite Lake, for a glimpse of 
friends from New York, Canada and Texas. 

The welcome at Mrs. Guillow's cottage in the village 
was cordial, as was promised last year, when we were 
there at both the beginning and end of our journey. 

269 



14000 MILES 

Again we brought a rainy day, and wrote all the morn- 
ing, as there was not time between showers to drive to 
our friend's new studio and cottage, but after dinner we 
decided to walk the mile and a half round the lake, 
through the woods, and risk the rain. We surprised our 
friends as much as we can surprise any one who knows 
of our wanderings. 

After we had enjoyed the lake views from the broad 
piazza, a fire was built on the hearth for good cheer, in 
the huge room which was reception-room, dining-room 
and library, all in one, with couches here and there, book- 
cases galore, and altogether such a room as we never 
before saw, but a fulfilment of Thoreau's description of 
an ideal living-room in one of his poems. A broad stair- 
way led from this room to the floor above, where every 
room was airy and delightful, and the floor above this 
has no end of possibilities. The studio is a small, attract- 
ive building by itself. 

We started to walk back the other way, making a cir- 
cuit of the lake, but had not gone far, when a driver with 
an empty carriage asked us to ride. In the evening two 
young friends, who were away at a ball game in the after- 
noon, rowed across to see us. 

Never lovelier morning dawned than that first Sunday 
in July. We should have enjoyed hearing another good 
Fourth of July sermon by Mr. Radoslavoff as we did last 
year, but we had already stayed over a day, and must 
improve this rare morning for the "awful hills" every- 
body told us were on our way north. So with more 
promises of hospitality from Mrs. Guillow, an invitation 
to leave our horse with her neighbor opposite any time, 

270 



14000 MILES 

and pleasant words from friends of the students who are 
attracted to this growing Summer School of Music, we 
retraced three miles of the lovely Keene road, then up we 
went, and up some more, then down and up again. We 
walked the steepest pitches, and the day ended at Bel- 
lows Falls as beautiful as it began. We were now in 
Vermont. Fifth state in ten days! 

From Bellows Falls to Rutland by rail is not to be 
spurned, but by the hilly highways, it is a joy forever. 
We always anticipate that superb bit of driving through 
Cavendish Gorge before we reach Ludlow, where once 
more we enjoyed the comforts of the old Ludlow House, 
spic and span this time. Then came another perfect day 
for crossing Mt. Holly of the Green Mountain range, and 
we chose the rough short cut over the mountain, ignor- 
ing the smooth roundabout way for automobiles. Miles 
of wayside, and whole fields, were radiant with yellow 
buttercups, white daisies, orange tassel-flower, red and 
white clover, and ferns. The views are beyond descrip- 
tion. We stopped on the summit to give our horse water, 
and never can resist pumping even if the tub is full. A 
woman seeing us came from the house bringing a glass, 
and we made a new wayside acquaintance; and still 
another when we camped by a brook at the foot, and got 
milk for our lunch. 

We reached Rutland at four o'clock, just as demon- 
strations for the Fourth were beginning, and once in our 
room at The Berwick, with three large windows front, 
we could have fancied we were at Newport, New Hamp- 
shire, where we were last year the night before the 
Fourth. The program of entertainment was fully equal ; 

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14000 MILES 

nothing was missing but the bonfire of barrels. We 
watched the street panorama until ten o'clock, then ex- 
amined the fire rope, but concluded a fire was necessary 
to make one know how to use it, packed our things ready 
for quick action, and slept serenely. 

We waited until the early morning firing was over 
before we ordered our horse, and then found by some 
mistake she had had an extra feed of oats, which was 
quite unnecessary, for the crackers, common and cannon, 
furnished sufficient stimulus. Clouds were heavy, the 
wind strong, air cool, and we thought the list of 
prophecies for that week might be at hand all at once. 
Singularly, none of them came to pass on the dates 
given ! 

When at Bellows Falls, something prompted us to 
write our Fair Haven friends we were on the way, which 
we rarely do. Had we not, we would have been disap- 
pointed, for we found the house closed. A note pinned 
on the door, however, we were sure was for us. They 
were at the Country Club, Bomoseen Lake, for a few 
days, and asked us to join them there. We first called on 
the cousin from New York State, whose address was 
given, and whom we had not seen in many years. She 
gave us direction for the four miles' beautiful drive to 
the lake, and as we followed its lovely shores to the 
Country Club, we recalled how many times we had read 
on the trolley posts from Rutland, "Go to Bomoseen." 
We say to all who have the chance, "Go to Bomoseen." 

All the Fair Haven cousins were there, the "Michigan 
Subscriber" too, and for another surprise, our cousin, the 
story-writer, who had just finished a book. After a row 

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14000 MILES 

on the lake, we returned to the Country Club piazza over 
the bluff, to enjoy the exquisite views of the hills on the 
opposite shore — mountains, we called them — until we 
were called to the tempting supper served by the care- 
taker and presiding genius of the culinary department. 
He was unceasing in his attention, even to the lemonade 
served at a late hour, after the fireworks were over, and 
the literary works compared, as we watched the lake by 
moonlight from the piazza, or sat by the open fire. Ver- 
mont was now represented on our list. 

The sun rose gloriously across the lake, just opposite 
our window. Another perfect day! No wonder all 
regretted it was their last at the Country Club. While 
some were packing, and others down by the lake, or out 
with the camera, two of us walked through the woods to 
the top of the hill, but at noon we all met at the pleas- 
ant home in Fair Haven for dinner. 

Benson was our next destination, and our visit there 
had been arranged by telephone. The nine miles' drive 
over the hills in the afternoon of that glorious day was a 
joy and we gathered wild-flowers on the way iqr our ever 
young cousin who always welcomes us at the homestead. 
The "first subscriber" and the "authoress" followed by 
stage, and a tableful of cousins met at supper in the heart 
of the hills, as on the border of Lake Bomoseen the night 
before. After supper we all went to "Cousin Charlie's" 
store, and he made us happy with taffy-on-a-stick. Our 
special artist "took" us, taffy in evidence, being careful 
to have our ever-young chaperone in the foreground. 
By this same leading spirit we are always beguiled to 
the cream of conversation, and the morning visit amid 

273 

18 



14000 MILES 

the flowers on her corner piazza is so well described by 
the "story-writer," who asked for three minutes just as 
we were ready to resume our journey after dinner, that 
we will share it. 

Lines on Departure : 

The Fannies have come and the Fannies are going 
Of mirth, metaphysics, we've had a fair showing. 
We've all aired our fancies, our pet point of view. 
If we only could run things the world would be new. 
We all know we're right, and the others mistaken, 
But we've charity each for the other relation. 
So we join hearts and hands in the fraternal song : — 
The right, the eternal, will triumph o'er wrong. 
Whatever is true, friends, will live, yes, forever, 
So now we will stop— and discuss the weather 

We had written in the guest book, "Every day is the 
best day of the year," adding "This is surely true of July 
6, 1906." The parting lines were read to us as we sat in 
the carriage, and we had driven out of sight of the cor- 
ner piazza when we heard a good-by call from the cousin 
who came in late the night before from his round of 
professional visits, feeling quite ill. He looked so much 
better we wondered if the "Michigan subscriber" had 
been sending wireless messages to her. "materia medica" 
cousin. 

The visiting part of our journey was now over, and 
we started anew, with no more reason for going to one 
place than another. We had spent so much time on the 
preliminary "loop" in Rhode Island and Connecticut that 
we could not go as far north in the Adirondacks as we 
want to some time, but a drive home through the White 

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14000 MILES 

Mountains is always interesting. How to get there was 
the problem, when the Green Mountains were between. 
You can drive up and down New Hampshire and Ver- 
mont at will, but when you want to go across, the diffi- 
culties exceed those of the roads east and west in Rhode 
Island and Connecticut. We knew the lovely way from 
Benson to Bread Loaf Inn in Ripton, then over the 
mountains, and along the gulf roads to Montpelier, but 
we inclined to try a new route. You drive through the 
White Mountains but over the Green Mountains. 

With a new route in mind, from Benson we drove over 
more and higher hills to Brandon Inn for the night. The 
Inn is very attractive, but remembering the warm wel- 
come from our many friends, the inscription ovei the 
dining-room fire-place hardly appealed to us : 

"Whoe'er has traveled this dull world's round, 
Where'er his stages may have been, 
May sigh to think he jet has found 
His warmest welcome at an inn." 

The next day we crossed the mountain, hoping to take 
a fairly direct course to the Connecticut River, but on 
first inquiry, were told we must follow down White 
River forty miles before we could strike anything but 
"going over mountains" to get north. 

It matters not whether you drive north, south, east or 
west, among the Green Mountains. It is all beautiful. 
Even the "level" roads are hilly, with a continuous pano- 
rama of exquisite views. Crossing the mountains we are 
in and out of the buggy, walking the steepest pitches to 
the music of the lively brooks and myriad cascades, let- 
ting our horse have a nibble of grass at every "rest," 

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14000 MILES 

which makes her ambitious for the next one. We do not 
care how many automobiles we meet, but on these roads 
they are conspicuous by their absence days at a time. 

As we revel in these mountain drives and walks, we 
think of our friends who say we must be "tired to death," 
who would not be "hired" to go, and again of the one 
who likes to have a horse and "amble along," not for- 
getting the one who wrote she had just come in from an 
automobile ride, and that "to shoot through miles of 
beautiful country, eyes squinted together, and holding 
on tightly was a punishment," and still another automo- 
bilist who said it did seem rather nice to go with a horse, 
and stop to "pick things." 

The forty miles down White River in order to get 
north was truly following a river, and a charming drive 
as well as restful change, after the mountain climbing. 
As we journeyed we found genuine hospitality at the 
hotels in Stockbridge and West Hartford, small country 
towns in Vermont, and everywhere the phonograph, the 
R. F. D. and telephone, bringing the most remote farm 
house in touch with the outer world. 

We left White River with real regret, but after cutting a 
corner by driving over a high hill, we started north along 
the Connecticut, and at first should hardly have known 
the difference. In the course of twenty-five miles we 
realized we had faced about, as the hills gave place to 
mountains. We found very pleasant accommodation at 
the hotel in Fairlee, which was being renovated for sum- 
mer guests. We remember the bevy of young people we 
saw there last year, as we passed. 

The river fog was heavy in the early morning, but 

276 



14000 MILES 

cleared later, and all day long we reviewed the views we 
have reveled in so many times ; the river with us, and the 
New Hampshire mountains in the distance. For two or 
three miles we were on the lookout for a parting "camp" 
in Vermont. We almost stopped several times, and once 
began to unharness, then concluded to go a little further. 
When we reached the highest point on the hill, a large 
tree by the roadside, and a magnificent view of the river, 
hills, and mountains, assured us this was the spot we 
were being led to. Nan usually takes her oats from the 
ground, after she has made a "table" by eating the 
grass, but here they were served from a bank. We had 
taken our lunch, added a few lines to the journey report, 
which we write as we go, harnessed, and were ready to 
drive on, when a man came to the fence, from the field 
where he had been at work, and resting on his hoe said, 
"Well, ladies, you are enjoying yourselves, but you 
might just as well have put your horse in the barn, 
and given her some hay." We thanked him, saying she 
seemed to enjoy the camping as much as we do, and was 
always eager for the grass. He then told us we had 
chosen historic ground. Our camp was on the road 
spotted by Gen. Bailey and Gen. Johnson to Quebec for 
the militia. He gave several interesting anecdotes. At 
one time in Quebec he was shown a small cannon, which 
they were very proud of, taken from "your folks" at 
Bunker Hill. His wife replied, "Yes, you have the gun, 
and we have the hill." 

We shall have to take, back some things we have said 
about river roads, for that day's drive completed more 
than one hundred miles of superb river driving, in turn 

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14000 MILES 

close by White River, the Connecticut, Wells River, and 
the Ammonoosuc, which roared like Niagara, as it rushed 
wildly over the rocks under our window at the hotel in 
Lisbon, New Hampshire. 

It rained heavily during the night, but the sun was out 
bright in the morning. We surprised friends with a very 
early call, and then went on, taking our river along with 
us. At Littleton we found a generous mail, and all was 
well, so still on we went, camping at noon by our Am- 
monoosuc but parting with it at Wing Road, for it was 

• bound Bethlehem-ward, and we were going to White- 

I ' field, where we found a new proprietor at the hotel, who 

I . at one time lived in Leominster. 

Jefferson was our next objective point, and there are 
two ways to go. We wanted that lovely way marked 
out for us once by a Mt. Washington summit friend, 
who knew all the ways. We took a way that we wish to 
forget. We called it the ridgepole road between the 
White Mountains and the mountains farther north. 

\ There were mountains on all sides, but some of them 

I were dimly discerned through the haze, which threatened 

to hide them all. We went up until we were so high we 
had to go down in order to go up more hills. The road 
was full of mudholes, and swamps or burnt forests on 
either side, instead of the fine road and exquisite views 

! we remembered that other way. We had not been so 

annoyed with ourselves since we did not go to Provi- 

[ dence to start westward. That came out all right, how- 

ever, and we went to Providence after all. We had to 
trust to providence to pacify us this time, for we could 
not go back as we did then. 

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For immediate diversion we considered our homeward 
route. The "ridgepole" must be our northern limit for 
this journey. From Lake Memphremagog last year we 
drove home through Franconia Notch, and from the 
Sebago Lake trip two years ago through Crawford 
Notch. It was Pinkham's turn. Yes, and that would 
give us that unsurpassed drive from Jefferson to Gorham. 
How easy it was to decide, with the thought of that 
drive so close to the mountains which are never twice 
alike, and North Conway would be a good mail point. 

Before we got to Jefferson Highlands, we suddenly 
recognized a pleasant place where we camped several 
years ago, in a large open yard, facing the mountains. 
Once more we asked permission, which was cordially 
granted, with assurance we were remembered. In the 
hour and a half we were there, we kept watch of the 
clouds as we were writing in the buggy. They had 
threatened all the morning, and now we could distinctly 
follow the showers, as they passed along, hiding one 
mountain after another. They passed so rapidly, how- 
ever, that by the time we were on our way again, the 
first ominous clouds had given way to blue sky, and 
before long the showers were out of sight, and the most 
distant peak of the Presidential range was sun-glinted. 
The bluish haze, which so marred the distant views, en- 
tranced the beauty of the outlines and varying shades, 
when so close to this wonderful range. Later in the 
afternoon the sun came out bright, and the "ridgepole" 
and clouds were forgotten, as once more we reveled in 
the beauty and grandeur of Mts. Washington, Adams, 
Jefferson and Madison, with the Randolph hills in the 

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! foreground. We know of no drive to compare with this 

j drive from Jefferson to Gorham. 

I As we came into Gorham, we saw the first trolley since 

we left Fair Haven, Vermont, and had a glimpse of the 
Androscoggin River. The old Alpine House where we 

' have always been was closed, but The Willis House 

i proved a pleasant substitute. 

i Twenty miles from Gorham to Jackson, through 

Pinkham Notch, and we had forgotten the drive was so 

j beautiful ! Everything was freshened by the showers we 

watched the day before, and the mountains seemed 
nearer than ever. A river ran along with us over its rocky 
bed, the road was in fine condition, and -we could only 
look, lacking words to express our enthusiasm. The 
little house in the Notch by the A. M. C. path to Mt. 
Washington summit, where the woman gave us milk and 
cookies, and the strange little girl had a "library," was 
gone, not a vestige of anything left. We took our lunch 
there, however, as evidently many others had done. We 
had barely unharnessed, when a large touring car shot 
by, and we were glad the road was clear, for in many 
places it is too narrow to pass. We followed on later, 
and gathered wild strawberries, as we walked down the 
steep hills towards Jackson. 

The showers evidently did not make the turn we made 
at Jackson for Glen Station, for here it was very dusty. 
We have stayed so many times in North Conway, that we 
proposed trying some one of those pleasant places we 
have often spoken of on the way. We drove by several, 
but when we came to Pequawket Inn, Intervale, we 
stopped with one accord. Somehow we know the right 

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place when we come to it. This was another of those 
we note, and remember to make come in our "way" 
again. When we left in the morning our friendly hostess 
assured us that the lovely room facing Mt. Washington 
should always be "reserved" for us. 

She gave us directions for Fryeburg, for having been 
by turn in Rhode Island, Connecticut, Massachusetts, 
New Hampshire, Vermont and New Hampshire again, 
we wanted to complete the circuit of the New England 
States by driving into Maine. We left New Hampshire 
at Conway, and thought we took our mid-day rest in 
Maine, and remembering the hospitality of some years 
ago, were not surprised when a miss came from the house 
near by, and asked if we would not like a cup of tea. 
When we went later for a glass of water, we learned we 
were still in New Hampshire, and concluded hospitality 
was universal, and not affected by State lines. 

We had not time to explore the "wilds" of Maine, but 
it was sufficiently wild and uninhabited where we did go. 
Many of the houses were deserted, and hotels were 
scarce. One night we had to ask to stay at a small coun- 
try house. We knew they did not really want us, but 
when we told them how far we had driven, they quickly 
consented. Thinking we would appreciate it supper was 
served on china one hundred and twenty-five years old, 
after which a whole saw-mill was set in operation for our 
entertainment. Buried in the hills as we were, we could 
have "called-up" our friends in Boston, New York or 
elsewhere. 

We were getting away from the mountains, but there 
were so many high hills, and one a mile long, that we did 

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not miss them very much. We were in Maine ; that was 
enough. The wooded roads were very pretty, too. We 
would walk up a steep hill, then get in the buggy, write 
a sentence or two, and out again for a walk down a pitch. 
In number, steepness and length of hills, Franconia, 
Crawford and Pinkham Notches do not compare with 
these drives. The roads being grass-grown for miles 
indicates that all tourists do not take our route. As we 
came into Springvale, we saw automobiles for the first 
time since we left North Conway. 

As we drove on towards the coast, we were delighted 
to find it would come just right to spend a night at 
Green-Acre-on-the-Piscataqua, where we found so much 
of interest to us two years ago, and were greatly disap- 
pointed when we arrived at the inn, to find there was no 
possible way of caring for our horse, as the stable near 
the inn was closed. We did not want to go on to Ports- 
mouth, and the manager of the inn assured us of good 
care for ourselves and horse, if we would go back to Mrs. 
Adlington's cottage, which he pointed out to us on a hill 
up from the river. Before the evening ended we could 
have fancied ourselves on the piazzas of the inn, for the 
subjects that came up and were discussed by summer 
guests from New York, Philadelphia, Boston and Saco 
would have furnished a program for the entire season at 
the Eirenion. We were shown an ideal study in the cot- 
tage connected, where a book is to be written. Indeed, 
we seemed to be in an atmosphere of book-making, and 
again we were questioned until we confessed, and the 
"representative list" was materially increased. 

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Regrets for the inn were quite forgotten, and we felt 
we were leaving the Green Acre "Annex" when we said 
good morning to all the guests and went first to find Miss 
Ford in her summer study to secure a copy of her book, 
"Interwoven," sure to interest us, after the enthusiastic 
comments. 

We got our mail as we passed through Portsmouth, 
made a call at The Farragut, Rye Beach, and were 
invited to spend the night, but we had planned to go to 
Salisbury Beach, and thought best to go on. We took 
the boulevard, and were full of anticipation for the drive 
along the shore to Salisbury, via Boar's Head and Hamp- 
ton. Here we drove on the beach for a time, then 
returned to the boulevard, the beach flies becoming more 
and more troublesome, until our horse was nearly 
frantic. Our fine road changed to a hard sandy pull, and 
we were glad to get on the Hampton River Bridge. All 
went smoothly until we were nearly across the longest 
wooden bridge in the world, a mile, when obstructions 
loomed up, the trolley track being the only passable part. 
Workmen came forward, and said, rather than send us 
so many miles round, they would try to take us across. 
They unharnessed Nan, and led her along planks in the 
track, and put down extra planks for the buggy. We 
followed on over the loose boards. This difficulty sur- 
mounted, another soon presented itself. The boulevard 
ended, and the remaining two miles' beach road to Salis- 
bury was nothing but a rough track in the sand. We 
were advised to go round, though double the distance. 

When we made the turn from the beach, we faced 

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thunder clouds, which we had not seen before. We do 
not like to be on the road in such a shower as threatened, 
and there was no hotel within four or five miles. There 
were only small houses dotted along, but when the thun- 
der began, we resolved to seek shelter in the first house 
that had a stable for Nan. We asked at the first two- 
story house, if there was any place near where transients 
were taken. No one offered to take us, but directed us to 
a house a little farther up the road, but there the old lady 
said, "Oh no, I couldn't !" As an apology for asking her, 
we told her we understood she did sometimes take people. 
The thunder was increasing, the clouds now getting 
blacker, and we urged her a little, but she told us to go to 
the "store" a little way up, and they would take us. Re- 
luctantly we went and asked another old lady who looked 
aghast. "I never take anybody, but you go to the house 
opposite the church ; she takes folks." By this time the 
lightning was flashing in all directions, and we felt drops 
of rain. Imagine our dismay to find the house was the 
one we had just left. (Ought we to have stayed at the 
Farragut?) We explained and begged her to keep us, 
promising to be as little trouble as possible. She said she 
was old and sick, and had nothing "cooked-up," but she 
would not turn us out in such a storm, she would give us 
a room, and we could get something to eat at the store. 

We tumbled our baggage into the kitchen, hurried Nan 
to the barn, and escaped the deluge. We were hardly 
inside when a terrific bolt came, and we left the kitchen 
with the open door, and stole into the front room, where 
windows were closed and shades down. The grand- 
daughter came in from the "other part," with several 

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children, and we all sat there, until a cry came, "Some- 
thing has happened down the road!" We all rushed to 
the open door and word came back that a tree was struck 
in a yard near the house where we made our first inquiry 
for shelter, and a man at an open window was prostrated 
and had not "come to." One of the children had run 
away down the street and was brought back screaming 
with fright, and asking if the thunder struck him ! The 
shower was very severe, but passed over rapidly, and 
when the golden sunset glow came on, we began to think 
of making a supper from the crackers, nuts, raisins and 
pineapple in our lunch box, thinking how much better 
that was than standing in the "breadline" at San Fran- 
cisco. But while we were still watching the sunset, we 
were called to supper, and the lunch box was forgotten. 
Our good lady finally told us she boarded the school mas- 
ters for thirty-five years, and "took" people, but now she 
was alone she did not like to take men, having been 
frightened, and she always sends them to a man a little 
way up the road, but does not tell them he is the "select- 
man." When they ask there, they are offered the lock- 
up. "If you had been two men I should have sent you 
there !" We talked until nearly dark, before taking our 
things upstairs. 

Breakfast was served in the morning, and our hostess 
seemed ten years younger, declaring we had been no 
trouble. When we gave her what we usually pay at a 
small hotel, she accepted it reluctantly. We promised to 
send her the report of our journey, and she asked if we 
should come the same way next year. 

It was all right that we did not stay at the Farragut, 

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for that hard drive would have shortened our visit in 
Newburyport, and dinner with a friend at the Wolfe 
Tavern. 

We found a large mail at Newburyport, and then 
looked up a way home. Really, the only fitting terminal 
route to such a fine journey was to follow the coast to 
Boston, and then home via Concord. At Hamilton we 
found the family tomb of Gail Hamilton, and took a snap- 
shot of her home. 

The miles of driving along the coast, and the boule- 
vards of the Park Reservation through Beverly, Salem, 
Marblehead, Swampscott, Lynn, Revere Beach and Win- 
throp, were a striking contrast to the miles of hills. We 
found friends along the way, and stayed one night close 
by the shore, then drove into Boston, where Nan fell into 
line on Atlantic avenue as unconcerned as when in the 
solitude of the mountains. We made a call or two as we 
passed through the city to Cambridge, and on through 
Arlington and Lexington to Concord, where we spent the 
last night at the Old Wright Tavern, built in 1747. It 
is full of souvenirs and reminders of the Revolutionary 
times. Framed illuminated inscriptions hung on the 
walls of the dining-room. 

We began our last day very pleasantly, after leaving 
our cards at a friend's house, by calling on the Chaplain 
of the Concord Reformatory, and finding in his home 
friends from Chicago, who asked about the revolver, 
which reminded us we had not taken it from the bottom 
of the bag in which it was packed before we left home. 

At noon it began to rain, and we had the first cosy 
rainy drive, enjoying it as we always do. We did not 

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regret, however, missing the deluge which came just as 
Nan was hurrying in to her stall. She knew all the after- 
noon where she was going, and was impatient with every 
delay. We did not blame her, for she had taken a great 
many steps in the seven hundred miles and more, and 
been equal to every demand, traveling every day but two 
in the whole month. The miles of this journey swell the 
number to nearly 15000, but we will not change the 
title of our book, for 14000 is a multiple of the mystic 
number 7, and also of the 700 miles of this Postscript. 



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